


and hold your tongue

by raven_aorla



Series: Our Agency [5]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, 19th Century CE RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Canon Queer Character, Canon Trans Character, Consensual Medical Experimentation, F/F, F/M, Gen, Gender Issues, Happy BDSM, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Intersex Character, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Neurodiversity, Polyamory, Romance, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-09-13 21:26:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 46
Words: 98,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9142921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla
Summary: Chev's training to be a mercenary secret agent, dubbed Mx. Cavalier. They can't tell their boyfriend. Pierre's experimental treatment is doing something strange to his brain. He doesn't want to tell any of his partners, let alone his primary.Otherwise they're really smart young people with great communication skills, and that'll make it work, right?[Sequel to Three Days Already. Other previous ones in this series are optional.]





	1. take a breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Welcome to yet another undertaking!
> 
> Quick reiteration that I believe the Chevalier(e) d'Eon can be interpreted as having been many possible non-cis categories. My interpretation is merely one that I think is plausible and fits the stories I want to tell. My use of the name I did in the tags is simply because the tags were pre-existing and I want as many fans of that person to be able to find this story as possible. I am aware that some might be fans of the anime. If you are a fan of the anime, I haven't seen it, sorry. But hooray for supporting narratives that are worth sharing!
> 
> Hamilton characters may get name-drops or brief cameos, but other than Lafayette, none of them will do something substantial. Hence this purely being labeled as historical RPF. 
> 
> The price of writing diversity is sometimes writing what you're less familiar with. If you belong to a demographic that I make a mistake about, please alert me to any errors.
> 
> There's a very brief mention of contemplated rape in this chapter (as in, not attempted, but would have been except for certain factors).

 

_ Take a breath, my heart, and hold your tongue  _

_ It's just a cog in the year of all my love.  _

 

\- "Pretty Little Head" by Eliza Rickman

 

_ *** _

 

Pierre was full of smiles when Chev picked him up at the station, but he also looked wan and weary. Chev leaned over and kissed him when he got in the car, waited for him to buckle up, then started towards Pierre’s place.

“Appointment go okay? Sorry I couldn’t drive you and make it just one hour each way.” They couldn’t afford to miss class when they knew the demands of their new job - despite still being part-time - might at some point make them need to skip, or possibly to stay home recovering. They’d gotten some nasty bruises from the last “hands-on” training exercise. Thankfully Pierre had been visiting his maternal relatives in Vietnam and hadn’t been around to notice. Chev was compiling excuses for the future. It’d been fun, though.

“Well, I’m sorry I needed you to pick me up, so let’s say they cancel each other out. I wanted to be sure I could go on my own, and it was good to try when I knew I could summon nearby friends. I didn’t need Friedrich to re-give the researchers the whole third degree on whether they were going to hurt me or cheat me or whatever.” Pierre took off his gloves, which were reversible, and swapped the hands before putting them on. Then he did it again. And again, and again, and again.  “Anyway, John and company rode part of the subway ride with me, until I had to switch to the commuter train.”

“Good.” They had looked up procedures that seemed vaguely similar to what Pierre had been able to describe without breaking confidentiality, and the pictures had been alarming and painful-looking. They hadn’t known hypodermic needles came in sizes that large. That was the sort of thing Pierre got to bring up, though, if anyone was going to. It wasn’t Chev’s call. 

“I’ll tell you more about the museum and lunch after I’ve had food, because otherwise talking about lunch will be unfun. I got a text from Friedrich. Vet said Azor still needs to run sometimes like he did ‘before he got old and fat’, not just walk, and that’ll probably make his mood and digestion better. I guess even mini greyhounds need running. He’s invited me to join in sometimes, maybe sometimes with Benjy, and I think I will. Either way. I only had Advanced Mandarin today, excused absence, and I got the homework and in-class reading from  _ Laoshi _ to do tonight. Gotta write 400 more characters about family traditions. Everything due tomorrow’s done. How about you?”

Electives could be from any major, and Pierre had filled his slots up with Chinese, Intro to Latin, Anthropology (he wrote a paper on endangered and extinct languages), and Intro to Computer Science (his programs were the worst in the class, but he'd been delighted by Python's concept and structure). Also 18th Century Theatre and Poetry, lest you think he didn't have any range. He also kept borrowing Chev's textbook on international law and reading parts for fun. Because he was ridiculous.

Chev slowed and didn’t try to squeeze past the yellow light. First, Pierre was with them and safe, so no need to rush. Second, they absolutely hated showing cops their driver’s license. (Or anyone, for that matter.) A police car liked to hang around this tricky intersection. Fundraising, as it were. “Bit of homework, not too bad. Early in the semester.” Their last semester. Wow. 

“Yeah. The Neuralizine researchers say that by the time my classes get to finals, everything should be pretty smoothed out. Doses just once a month then.” That wasn’t its official name, Pierre had explained, but it was catchier than a long formula that was top-secret anyway. If it got past the human trial stage it would probably end up with some other, PR-designated name, rather than a cobbled-together medication-cliche nickname. It had already been extensively tested on animals and one small group of volunteers. Pierre was part of the second, broader round. 

“Did you tell them that you’ve screamed and sobbed in your sleep on at least four different nights?” Three of the episodes had been with Chev, and one with Friedrich. Chev had also slept beside Pierre on two nights when nothing happened. The other nights, Pierre had been alone. Maybe they should record him when he was alone.

“Yes. Night terrors aren't common, but not unprecedented. They say it’s not dangerous, or even necessarily me having a real emotional experience, just the nervous system figuring itself out. Though they admit that we can’t know for sure if I’m having nightmares I’m forgetting.” Pierre glanced at Chev and bit his lip. “Uh, I understand if you don’t want to sleep over as long as it’s a thing.”

“It was only once per night if I didn’t wake you up, about ten minutes a time. I went back to sleep once you settled down and my heart stopped racing. You probably can’t stay overnight at my place again until we know you’re not gonna do that, though, because Jeanne has limited patience with me as is.” Their roommate wasn’t prejudiced against Chev, she and they just weren’t really pals, despite knowing a lot of people in common from clubs Chev didn’t have time for anymore. Rent got paid. This was temporary.

“If you’re there when it happens, then, tell me the times, please, so I can record it in my Subject Notes. They don’t call it that, but it amuses me. Is it all...is it all worth it, for you?”

The light turned green. Chev drove on. “As long as it’s worth it for you. I’m not noticing any verbal tics, which I noticed this morning and yesterday, so it seems to work as well as wear off over a few days.”

“For now. Eventually we’ll get to once every three months!” 

Chev had to smile at the delight in Pierre’s voice, and hope none of it was misplaced. “But I don’t know what’s going on inside your head.”

“I mean, you still want to move in together after the summer?” No, no, no, he wasn’t allowed to sound this tentative.

“Pierre, this is like the pantsless party thing all over again. I am happy when you are happy, okay? And I want us spending time together to be the default option. That’s how it works.” They’d never seen anyone get so (metaphorically) tied up in knots over whether to go to a party or not, just because he knew Chev wouldn’t be comfortable accompanying him. 

“I’m going to the pantsless party.”

“Yay! Tell me all the embarrassing stories. And, of course, all the sexy ones.” It wasn’t far to Pierre’s little studio apartment. 

“It’s not just about Tourette’s, you know, it’s about all sorts of disorders involved with language. Kind of. It’s more specific than that, but that gets into the whole ‘either they haven’t told me or I’m not allowed to tell you’ zone. They’re starting with people who have neurological issues but are still great at communicating. You wouldn’t want to rely on someone with, like, severe aphasia to describe subjective symptoms to a new drug.”

Chev patted Pierre’s leg before quickly returning their hand to the steering wheel. “If it makes the language part of your brain better, I’m slightly worried about what’s going to happen next. They know what you’re like already, right?”

“What do you mean? Oh! Oh! See that building over there? If you have time soon, they’re showing a few two-bedrooms that fit the price range you said you could manage 50/50. Maybe two-bedrooms so you can retreat from my slumbering shrieking side effects if you need to. Guest room/office/rec room/library otherwise. I took notes on the specs, but I wrote them in my diary, which is sometimes in English and sometimes in French but all transliterated into Korean letters. So I’ll, uh, write new notes for you.”

At the moment, it was more fun to bask in Pierre’s obliviousness than to ask why he wrote his diary in Korean letters. He didn’t speak Korean. Chev said only, “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Pierre still looked confused - again, happy, but very tired. Chev decided they wanted their boyfriend to eat and then spend ages in a hot bubble bath before they’d endorse him doing any homework whatsoever. Take a peek at how the injection site looked by now. They turned onto Pierre’s street.

Chev’s contract for their new job outlined a number of...creative...things that would happen to them if they slipped. Things their friendship with Reinette and being a metamour with Friedrich would not prevent. Living with a brilliant person they loved and felt a powerful impulse to fuss over was going to make secrecy much less simple. To say the least.

What the hell. Chev wasn’t into simplicity.

***

Both had ramen for dinner, but not, like, freeze-dried ramen. Thick-noodled ramen with scallions and fish meatballs and lots of broth. Pierre tried not to live too heavily on takeout, but this was a recovery night. He told Chev about his other adventures today, and Chev told him about seeing a groundhog in the shrubbery near the campus post office, maybe. Pierre agreed with the proposition to leave the dishes scraped, but not yet scrubbed, in the sink. 

"You don't have to watch me while I'm taking a bath. Not gonna drown."

"What if I want to sketch you?" Chev followed Pierre towards the bathroom.

Pierre realized he didn't feel like being alone. He leaned over the tub and turned on the water without closing the bathroom door first. An invitation. "Stick figures are super sexy, come to think of it." 

"I've got a webcomic to show you if you think so." Chev brought in a chair. They were really not a fan of sitting on bathroom floors these days. They shut the door. "Steam'll be good for my pores. Or something."

"Oh, Ada's gonna pass through this area on her way driving up from Blacksburg on Saturday. I've never actually met her irl. She wants to know if we're up for lunch." Pierre had struck up an ongoing online friendship with Ada after the crisis that first brought him into her orbit. Complete with mutual tumblr following and impromptu texts at odd hours. 

"Got work, sadly. I hope that won't come across as ingratitude for her help." Chev got a particular look about them when referring to being kidnapped. Like they had a cramp in their foot but didn't want to show signs of pain. Pierre had promised not to go out of his way to avoid relevant references. He still didn't like that look.

"Of course not." Pierre knew Chev had whittled their commitments down to class, their job doing data entry on Saturdays (which must have been super boring, given how Chev never had any stories to share), and fencing practice (no more tournaments). Chev made time for Pierre, but no guarantees otherwise.

When the bathtub was full, Pierre took off his clothes and settled in. He hadn't realized how much he ached all over. Like last time. Doctor Chovet said it was nothing to be worried about. "It won't hurt my feelings if you do something and not watch me the whole time."

"I'll check my messages." They took out their phone

***

_ When Pierre and the others found them, Chev had refused to leave the house until they saw Claude in handcuffs. But they wanted a shower. _

_ "Surprised none of you are demanding it, given that I haven't washed in days. Are you done, Eliza?" _

_ John had helped Chev lie on the bed in the room next to the half-bath where Chev had been chained. Martha had checked them for shock. By then Eliza, who'd ended up hanging back a block away for safety, had arrived. John took pictures of Chev's one notable external wound before it got fixed up. Between her and Martha there was enough first-aid  materials and expertise to clean and wrap up Chev's heavily friction-burned right wrist. Eliza said, "In my nurse-ly opinion, this will be fine, but you should still see a doctor before the end of the day." _

_ "Myuhkindaboyfriendwho'sadoctor would be sensitive about it," Martha said in a blushing rush. _

_ "Let's talk about that later. Shower." _

_ "Has Pierre seen you naked? I didn't want to assume." John winced. "I mean that it might be a bad idea for you to be completely alone, but if Pierre's already, I mean it might help..." _

_ "I get it," Chev said, unoffended. _

_ Eliza handed them a small, chilled bottle. "Brought this in case you were literally starving." _

_ "Close, probably. As long as it's not fucking vanilla almond." They drank it.  _

_ Friedrich cleared his throat from where he stood: in a corner, looming over the ex-lover he'd tied to a chair. Feet tied to the back legs, not touching the floor. Louie hadn't said a word other than, "I'm so sorry!" (unprompted) and where the key was to free Chev (prompted, but not very hard). He'd also signed a check paying for Chev's car to be freed from the towing company before meekly letting his hand be immobilized. But Friedrich had been coldly staring at him in a way that would have made Pierre a weeping mess about thirty seconds in, if it wasn't part of well-defined roleplay. He wondered if perhaps Louie, darkly bruised in ways Chev couldn't have managed, needed to be examined as well. _

_ "Don't let them get away with any act worth prosecution," Friedrich told Chev, with a gentleness at odds with his posture. _

_ Chev's left hand had been gripping Pierre's right ever since they'd moved to the bed. They rubbed their thumb over Pierre's knuckles as if to comfort him. "I didn't get raped, if that's what you're worried about. Claude wanted to, but Louie persuaded him otherwise. Very dramatic. Pierre, mon cher, help me to a full bathroom."  _

_ The group split up, Eliza and John staying with Louie. Chev and Pierre were close in height and weight, despite how tall Chev usually seemed, so helping them wasn't hard.  _

_ "Why don't you put that bag of yours down?" Chev asked. _

_ "Bag of yours down. We're here. I know you said shower, of yours, but the tub looks nice." _

_ "Are you saying you don't think I can stand long enough?" Chev propped themselves against a wall. "Because it's possible you're right." _

_ "Do you want me to go?" Pierre agreed with John, but he wanted to give Chev their agency. "I could be just outside of yours?" _

_ "No." They carefully made their way to the faucet and turned on the water. _

_ Pierre started taking things out of his messenger bag. "I brought you a change of clothes, of yours. Plus what your roommate said are preferred soap and shampoo brands of yours." When he was stuck in echo mode, sometimes he could incorporate the other person's words in a relatively smooth way. _

_ Chev stared at the pile of offerings, then looked at Pierre. They said nothing. When they got into the tub, they took the bar of Dove Pierre handed to them and cradled it between their hands for nearly a minute. Like they'd mistaken it for a shivering baby dove. Then Pierre helped them to scrub without getting the bandage wet.  _

_ *** _

It wasn't hard to convince Pierre to skip his Chinese. Instead, Chev wrapped Pierre in a blanket taquito (it was an objectively cuter word than "burrito") next to them on the couch, his head in their lap. They petted his hair while doing their homework.

They braided their limbs with his in bed, despite Pierre pointing out what might happen in Pierre's sleep. They knew it would make him sleep more soundly.  It wouldn't be hard to extricate themself if need be.

Chev had learned via text during Pierre's bath that they would be working Friday night. Thankfully, Pierre had Chev as part of a rich life, not as some attempt at completing his life. Chev would loathe that kind of demand. He'd trimmed his formal extracurriculars to some newly founded book club that met once a month, because the Neuralizine researchers didn't want him too stressed. But his informal social life was complex and impressive. Pierre would be fine. Chev would need to not worry.

Reinette had texted: "hang out Fri! Marie's busy. xx"

hang out Fri! = "Extra work Friday after you're done with class, paid, but not optional." Literal social invitations were written as "Hang out fri??" If Chev was expected to skip class, it'd be "hangout Fri?!"

Marie's busy. = "Come be briefed at our special on-campus meeting place at 2:40 PM tomorrow." She also used "Might be late", for variety.  If Marie was truly busy, and this was relevant, it would be "wifey busy". As for the latter, she never thought she might be late. 

xx = "Your assignment will require presentation as female." "Male "was "xo", "you'll need to switch partway" was "xoxo", and "unimportant" was either :D if it was a happy text, or :/ if it was an unhappy text.

Too bad Pierre couldn't know about this. He'd love it.

" _ Cognito ergo cognito,"  _ Pierre said drowsily. _I think, therefore I think._ Chev kissed him behind the ear and drifted off, for now.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently reading du Ponceau's autobiography and will end up putting references to some of the really entertaining bits here and there. Can't help it. He's got a lot of great anecdotes.The making-Azor-run thing is from him sharing that Azor used to run alongside the horses when the Baron's party was traveling. Also there was one guy who was a terrible singer, and du Ponceau was grateful that Azor barked incessantly until that guy stopped singing.


	2. move with the day (Chev)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a slight departure from my usual character-naming practice for this AU, the named members of Fencing Club are named after people featured in the Mentalfloss article [7 Duels Between Women](http://mentalfloss.com/article/75944/7-duels-between-women) .

***

Chev woke to the sound of Pierre piteously, yet dryly, sobbing in his sleep. They knew both from experience and from research that nothing short of waking Pierre would make him stop, and that waking him was a short-term solution that would just end up depriving Pierre of rest. 

For their own sake, really, they said, “Ssh, you’re fine, you’re safe,” made sure all Pierre was covered with plenty of blankets up to the neck, and that his position wouldn’t obstruct his breathing. They turned on the bedside lamp to its dimmest setting and jotted down the time for Pierre’s records. Then they couldn’t bear to be next to Pierre until the episode ended. They needed to do something. 

This being a studio apartment, there wasn’t any other real room to go to other than the bathroom, and Chev had an issue now about being in bathrooms alone more than strictly necessary. Sometimes they listened to music or podcasts when they were in the bathroom alone. Their therapist was good at helping them figure out things like that.

However, there was a kitchenette in a doorless but slightly hidden nook, and the dishes from dinner were still in the sink. Chev slipped past the standing bamboo screen that functioned as a barrier around the “bed zone”, and set themself to the simple task. 

By the time they’d set the last dish on the drying rack - Pierre was convinced that wiping spread germs - their boyfriend had gone quiet. He was still curled into a ball, though. Chev recorded the time and got back into bed with him.

This was what Friedrich would call battle tactics, or what Marie, Reinette’s wife, would call etiquette.

On the other hand, it was understood that if Chev ever cried in their sleep, Pierre was to wake them up immediately. It had only happened once so far. Pierre had hugged them, made them chamomile tea, and talked about why he thought it would make more sense for cephalopods to be a dominant alien race, rather than some kind of primate.

Chev asked Pierre in the morning if he remembered anything. Pierre paused in searching for a specific pair of jeans. “No. Not any dreams, either. I’ve stopped remembering any dreams. Thanks for doing the dishes.”

“You’re welcome. What do you want for breakfast? I feel like wearing makeup today, but I’ll put it on after eating.”

“I’m not really hungry.” Pierre saw Chev’s look and said, “...So, uh, I’m going to have one of the nutrition shakes I stocked up on after I was advised to, and pack a healthy snack to eat between classes if I feel hungry before lunch.”

“Nice save.” Chev went to pour themself some cereal. Pierre kept Apple Cinnamon Cheerios stocked despite disliking cinnamon, because Chev liked that cereal best. Chev had actually brought up this fact when inviting Pierre to cohabitate. Also, Chev had clothes stashed here, just as Pierre kept clothes in Chev’s bedroom.

Pierre trailed after, combing his hair. “If you’re free for a few hours on Sunday, wanna do a scene, maybe? No pressure. Friedrich’s got me for Friday night, but since he doesn’t do impact and you only do super feather-light bondage there’s not gonna be much overlap.” 

Through a combination of biology and personality, Chev had a noticeably lower sex drive than Pierre did, especially after the “new relationship energy” wore off. One of the advantages of Pierre having multiple partners was making Chev more relaxed about this. In their previous relationship, Chev had participated in a fair amount of sex out of a sense of duty, a concept that filled Pierre with horror. However, a BDSM scene wasn’t all about sex. Chev could often enjoy one on the level of a game and a form of bonding if they weren’t feeling amorous per se. 

“If I’m free, yes. I was just thinking to myself that you’ve been sitting far too comfortably lately.”

Pierre laughed and darted over to kiss them. 

***

Speaking of what was and wasn’t sex:

Reinette and Chev had a few places to discuss work with each other, but there was only one that was suitable for touching base when one or both of them were on campus and squeezed for time. The main cafeteria was in a standalone building about 80 years old, and there was a “secret” crawlspace within its bowels. Some leftover from a renovation decades ago. You had to be reasonably slender and agile to get to it, and it wasn’t visible until you were basically inside it. The campus authorities had never been able to prove that people used it specifically for sex, and it was also used for such wholesome things as scavenger hunts, so it hadn’t been closed up for now. One administrator had wryly commented that if they closed up every location that students had used for furtive sexual activities, they would have no classrooms, for a start.

The two of them had made a few different recordings of themselves making realistic makeout noises. At 2:40 PM, it was time to get into the crawlspace and to play one of those recordings from Chev’s phone. It was on Chev’s phone because Pierre didn’t feel romantic jealousy and wouldn’t immediately freak out if he discovered it, unlike Marie. Reinette would be allowed to tell Marie the truth, but might as well spare her that moment of misunderstanding, or to weaken the secrecy by telling her beforehand unecessarily.

Under the cover of fake gasps and sighs, Reinette handed Chev an envelope and a small flashlight. She said in quiet French, “Read this quickly and ask whatever questions immediately spring to mind. You can ask others later, but it’ll be trickier.” (Their shared French speaking and heritage was one of the things that had drawn them together in the first place.)

Also in French, Chev said, “If His Highness wants me to do something the day after tomorrow and didn’t let you know until last night, that’s something seriously time-sensitive.”

“Read the briefing and see.”

It took two reads before Chev believed it. Mr. 15 wanted them to personally deliver a message and a document to Ching Shih, the “Pirate Empress” of the South China Sea, who was in America right now for unclear reasons. And she’d agreed to a meeting, but it had to be Friday. 

“The agreement you’re supposed to get her to sign is also in there.” 

“Is Mr. 15 trying to kill me?” Chev hissed.

“No. Shaka’s gonna drive you and be your backup. Well, he can’t go in there, that’d be a huge faux pas, but if you don’t reappear…”

“This just keeps getting better and better.”

“I thought you like Shaka. Maybe you haven’t started training with him yet, but I know you’ve met.” 

Shaka Zulu had a murky, definitely bloody past, but he wasn’t going to teach Chev lethal techniques. The Agency’s fragile peace with the CIA meant that none of the agents were contract killers, to start with. There were a few who might kill someone in the process of an objective - if those someones were mobsters or terrorists and so on, it “wasn’t priority”. But Mr. 15 had Chev take some psychological tests and decided that even if Chev had been up for it, Chev wasn’t suited to killing in other than defense of self or others. But according to Shaka, learning how to defend yourself is hard, learning how to attack is hard, learning how to attack and defend effectively BUT nonlethally is hardest of all. He insisted that Chev reach a certain standard of fitness before taking them on.

“Yes, and he’s quite a character, but I don’t think he’ll be a relaxing presence. He’ll probably tell me a story on the drive there about how Ching Shih’s minions can kill you with a sesame seed.”

“He told me a story about how he killed someone with a yam, back in South Africa.”

Chev couldn’t help but giggle. “That’d be quite the food fight. So this is a Genevieve.” They were developing different personas with different nicknames. Genevieve was simply them as a woman, just as Charlie was them simply as a man. The core personality was the same. 

“Yes, keep it simple.”

The two discussed the matter for a few more minutes. Before leaving, both carefully messed up their clothes and hair, bit at their own lips to make them redden, and smudged their makeup. 

***

It was too early for Fencing Club practice to start up yet, and the Fencing Team, which was composed of club members who wanted to compete rather than just learn and have fun, would start later still. But there was a meeting that evening about the club’s booth at the Club Fair the following week. Chev wasn’t an officer, but had often served as a mentor to others. 

Every officer, and every returning member who felt like showing up, was sitting in a circle in their usual practice space. “We had to chase the Calvinball club out,” Christiane said. “Shouldn’t Calvinball be outdoors, anyway?”

“It’s supposed to be anarchical,” Shelby said, shrugging. She patted a bit of the floor next to her. Chev smiled and sat.

The meeting was going well until Armand raised his hand. “Um. Unpopular opinion, but I think it’s worth saying. Maybe it’d be best if Chev not hang around the booth? No offense, Chev, you’re awesome and stuff, but when we’re trying to up our recruitment numbers this semester, maybe the first impression we make should be less…” He faltered.

Pauline, incidentally their president, raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying that we should de-emphasize the fact that for once in our history, even those uninterested in competition and the extra fees of coaching will have access to someone who is going to be TEACHING FENCING in FRANCE in a few months? A real fencing teacher? I suppose reverse psychology works in some contexts, but that doesn’t sound effective here.”

Astie added, “By the way, phrases like ‘unpopular opinion’ and ‘no offense’, especially ‘no offense’, don’t really endear you to the listeners. Frankly, if someone is considering joining the club but doesn’t because of ‘the impression’ Chev gives them, they’re not someone we want to have in the club. Am I right?”

Di cheered, waving her fist in the air. This was Di’s standard response to many things. She then picked up her boyfriend Fabio’s hand and made him wave with her. This was her standard sequel to her response.

Chev said, “Thanks, ladies,” very quietly. Shelby patted them on the back. There was an en masse dinner at the dining hall afterwards, and Chev stealthily added extra salt to Armand's food, because sometimes they were petty. 

***

They’d just gotten home and kicked off their boots when they got a call. Friedrich.

“Chev? Pierre didn’t eat enough today because of nausea, and that plus a few other things - anyway, he fainted, and he’s with me now. He’ll be fine. I just need to know if you can pick him up tomorrow. If you can’t I can cancel plans.”

“Yes. I can pick him up - shit, why didn’t he call me?” The moment they said it they wondered if they sounded needy or selfish. “I mean, because I would have been closer.”

“He didn’t call me. He was with Will at the time, and Will has my number and not yours. And you live in half an apartment while I have a house at my disposal. If you don’t mind - SULKY - I’m going to get back to him now. He can tell you what happened when he’s better.”

“Is he conscious?”

Pierre shouted in the background, “Yes! And I’m being loved and nurtured whether I like it or not!”

“He likes condensed milk on toast, isn’t that odd? He can tell you what happened. Take care of yourself, too.” Friedrich hung up.

Chev groaned, but they needed to do laundry and homework.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be "move with the day (Pierre)" . Same day, different perspective.
> 
> When I was first coming up with ideas for this story, I worried that it might get to excessive levels of sick!Pierre. But reading his memoirs, I found that the real person spent much of the war doing things like coughing up blood, becoming too weak to ride a horse, running alarming fevers, having complete strangers tell him he was clearly going to die soon, his doctor prioritizing him above another patient because he considered him so delicate, the Baron becoming teary-eyed when he sent du Ponceau away from his side yet again for care and rest because he genuinely thought he'd never see him again...then he went on to live past 80.
> 
> The Christiana mentioned above was a teenage princess who dueled her cousin...the cousin who later became Catherine the Great! It was with swords and both parties survived, nothing else is known.


	3. move with the day (Pierre)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extremely brief reference to dysphoria herein.

The morning Pierre woke up after his previous injection, he'd felt even more nauseous, and it had been fine the next day. Doctor Chovet had pronounced this not alarming, though unfortunate, as long as it remained brief and predictable. So he wasn't worried about waking up so queasy this morning. Just annoyed.

Besides, he’d woken a few minutes before Chev had, and got to bask in it. They were lying on their side with one arm under the pillow and one around Pierre’s waist. Their pajamas were flannel and was covered in little Notre Dame Cathedrals, Leaning Towers of Pisa, Great Pyramids of Giza, Great Walls of China, and Machu Picchus. He started nuzzling the buildings thirty seconds before Chev’s alarm went off.

“Don’t make me hold you down and tickle you,” Chev muttered. 

“Oh no. Please don’t. How terrible. You fiend.”

Then Chev’s phone started making its usual faint sound of a rattlesnake. They said they were conditioning themselves to hear the important but subtle noise. In case it failed, about nine seconds later their phone started playing “Get Up” by REM.

“Raincheck. I’mma shower,” Chev said, in the tone that said this was a nobody-sees-me-naked day. Pierre could use the sink once Chev was behind the opaque shower curtain. 

“Did I wake you last night?” Pierre asked as Chev got out of bed and stretched. 

“Yeah, but not long. I took notes. What’d you do with my towel, sweet pea?”

***

Chev offered to drop Pierre of on campus, but Pierre wanted to ride his bicycle from place to place throughout the day, and Chev’s car was too small and had no roof rack. 

Just before they parted ways, Chev squeezed Pierre’s hand. “I’ve got fencing tonight and Reinette and I are probably going to have plans for Friday, and of course I’ve got work Saturday, so I’ve probably got to get tons done tomorrow…”

“That’s cool,” Pierre said. “Probably’ll see Friedrich on Friday. Having dinner with Jemsa today, and tomorrow I’ll be spontaneous. I penciled that into my calendar and everything. Saturday I meet Ada. Sunday with you. Right?”

“As sure as can be. Be good, or I refuse to beat your ass on Sunday.”

Neither was running late, so they had a good, long kiss goodbye.

***

Pierre had a bag of mixed nuts and dried fruits he nibbled on at various points in the day, between classes, and once during the class of a professor who didn’t mind discreet snacking. He felt fine. Just queasy, and a little light-headed. He made sure to drink plenty of water and had a box of apple juice around lunchtime.

He ran into Reinette around four as he emerged from his last class. She was sitting next to the fountain just outside the building, drawing something.

“Ooh, what’s that?” he asked, approaching her.

She snapped the book shut. “A surprise. You doing okay? Chev wanted me to do ‘visual recon’.”

“Yes. Fine. How’s Marie?”

“Her cold’s almost cleared up, and she’s spent the time in bed planning the garden for this spring.” Reinette and Marie lived in a fairytale, beautifully decorated cottage with a big garden about forty minutes’ drive from campus. “She’s starting up regular poker nights, if you want to learn poker.”

“Maybe not. It is said that I am twitchy and eager.”

She smiled. “That you are.”

The chatted a bit longer before Reinette got a text. She read it and said she needed to go, but they needed to spend time together soon, with or without Chev. Their friendship had survived Marie’s request that the former “benefits” end. Which Pierre was glad to abide by now that he knew the reason, and especially now that he knew Marie a bit, but he missed how Reinette used to hold him by the hair and demand perfection until his jaw and tongue ached. Since Reinette wasn’t interested in penises, she’d just cuddle him as he touched himself, as a reward for when he’d done well. Sigh. Happy memories.

But their friendship was still there, and seeing her left him smiling as he fetched his bike and headed towards the library. Before dinner, he could finish the Mandarin he hadn’t done this afternoon, plus his morphological analysis worksheet, with enough time left to start a trashy het romance he’d spotted on a shelf the other day.

***

By the late dinnertime Jemsa had requested, the heroine was being chased by a vicious warlord on horseback, and also Pierre had something of a headache. He made it to the dining hall before Jemsa did, so he got himself plain rice, which he put salt on, and a Sprite. After a moment’s thought, Pierre also got two servings of red Jello. 

When Jemsa took a seat across from Pierre, tray heaped with food, he clicked his tongue. “Side effects?”

“Yeah. How’s Parkour/Free-Running Club coming along?”

This was transparent deflection, but Jemsa went with it. “I only skinned one knee during yesterday’s expedition, but I lost a bet with a girl that I’d beat her to the top of the wall. So I have to swipe her in for the next three Sunday brunches. She doesn’t have a meal plan and you know how Sunday brunch is expensive if you pay in cash. But I also think that might have been her sneaky way to ask me out, because she’s like, ‘You can sit with me during brunch, if you don’t have anyone else to sit with. I guess.’”

“Is this a welcome development?”

“Yep!” Jemsa was about to continue, but his phone rang and he looked at the caller ID. “My dad. I need to take this. I’ll keep it short. I mean, this place is closing in, like, what, less than an hour?”

“No problem.”

Jemsa started eating even as he talked, with the appetite of someone who’d been working hard all day and possibly all the previous night. _“Bapu? Namaste. Main theek hoon...main thak gayaa hoon…_ ”

The enjoyment of listening helped with the lack of enjoyment of eating. Pierre did his best to put food in his mouth and chew and swallow. Eventually Jemsa was able to hang up and rhapsodize about his possibly-date, and the conversation developed from there. 

Right when Jemsa went back for seconds, an unwelcome voice shattered Pierre’s mood. “You’ve either got Jello on your chin or you’ve invented an entirely new kind of zit,” said William North as he cruised past the table, in almost his full ROTC uniform. He was missing the hat. 

Pierre wiped his chin and rolled his eyes. “You’ve either got spinach in your teeth or your unique plaque will be the talk of all the dentists’ conventions for years to come.”

“On second thought, put more Jello on your face. It was an improvement.”

“Your crush on me just keeps getting weirder.”

That was meant as a joke, but Will’s face went rigid and he hurried away. Shit. Pierre would never, ever, ever out Will on purpose, no matter how much they bickered with each other, but he’d forgotten how incredibly anxious Will was about the structural soundness of his closet. The joke had been in potential earshot of other people. He couldn’t shout his apology. That would make things worse. 

Pierre sprinted after him. Well, he went as fast as he could. The floor was not being cooperative. He rapidly lurched after Will, down the steps, out the door, down more steps, towards the largely empty parking lot. He paused. “Will. I’m sorry. Wait, talking to you, to say sorry.” 

This was when he fainted.

When he came to, Jemsa was pressing something to his right temple, and Will was on the phone. “He’s conscious!” Jemsa called out. 

“He’s conscious,” Will repeated for the benefit of whoever he was calling. “I swear I did nothing to him. He ran after me and then he just collapsed.”

Jemsa stopped Pierre from sitting up. Parkour Club, like Fencing, required at least one Red Cross certified first-aid provider at every practice, and Jemsa had become one for the sake of it. “You were out less than a minute, so we might not need to get you medical attention, just first aid. We should still be careful. Who’s president?” 

“Harriet Tubman. Why are you pushing my skull in?”

“You hit your head, but scalp wounds bleed like mofos without necessarily being serious, so don't panic. You owe me a new scarf when you’re feeling better. How much have you eaten today?”

“Uh…”

“Hey Jemsa?” Will held out his own phone. “Pierre’s boyfriend wants to talk to you.”

“Chev’s not male!” 

“I’m aware. Jemsa, this is Pierre's boyfriend.”

“Oh, right. Sorry, kneejerk response."

Jemsa took the phone. “Is this the Friedrich I’ve heard so much about?”

***

Jemsa ended up driving Pierre and Will to Friedrich’s house, Will staying in the back to keep an eye on Pierre, even after Pierre could keep pressure on his own wound. Benjy didn’t live with Friedrich and planned to maintain a separate residence for the foreseeable future, but he was there often enough that it wasn’t surprising when he opened the door. 

Benjy handled various logistics. Once Friedrich got Pierre in his clutches, the rest of the world became unimportant.

Except. 

“Call Chev, someone call Chev,” Pierre said weakly. “They’ll be worried if I miss both 8:30 and 9:00 check-in when I hadn’t said I’d be doing something else, I mean that check-in is for both of us, I’d be worried too…”

“When I’ve got you in my bedroom in one fucking piece and properly wrapped up, then we’ll talk,” Friedrich said, bundling Pierre away. 

Pierre used his free hand to wave at Jemsa, Will, and Benjy. “That’s a familiar sentiment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by an incident from du Ponceau's autobiography. Baron von Steuben (whom du Ponceau consistently calls "The Baron") and company were being pursued by redcoats. Du Ponceau, having already had a history of stretches of incapacitating illness, eventually couldn't keep up with strenuous, multi-day fleeing on horseback. In fact he couldn't even stay on a horse unassisted. He had trouble sitting up unassisted. So the Baron had du Ponceau's servant James tie him to a small cart, attach it to a horse, separate from the group, and head for civilization and help. Eventually the cart fell apart, so James helped du Ponceau onto a horse again. By this point du Ponceau started getting stronger. When they reached a doctor named Dr. Chovet, who eventually became a dear friend of du Ponceau's, the doctor said du Ponceau wasn't actually having a tuberculosis relapse like they thought. That he just needed rest and good food.
> 
> Jemsa is a Hindi variant of James. If my research is correct, Jemsa said, "Father? Hello. I'm ok...I'm tired..."
> 
> Fun fact: du Ponceau mentions Benjamin Walker in glowing terms, including being happy that the the Baron eventually left Walker half his property, but hasn't mentioned William North so far in my reading (even though North got the other half). I don't think he's likely to mention North now that he's no longer writing about the war. It look like du Ponceau drifted away from the Baron naturally and amicably. I didn't know this until after I'd written characterization for these guys already, and I'm delighted that it fits. I'm sure historical North and historical du Ponceau simply might not have known each other well. Still, though!


	4. his hand's on your shoulder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depressed. This helps.
> 
> You don't have to have read it to enjoy this chapter, but there are several callbacks to [Gute Nacht ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6753334). I feel like Gute Nacht belongs in this series, too, but I can't figure out where to put it. Compromise!
> 
> Warnings for emetophobes (Pierre worries but it doesn't happen), and for mention of past bullying, ableism, and nonconsensual touch.

Friedrich had just finished bandaging Pierre’s head when he said, “Little gecko, haven’t you had to wean yourself off your former medications in order to participate in the Neuralizine trial?”

“Yes.” With the approval of the relevant doctors, he’d done the tic medication during exams, when his twitchiness could be easily explained as exhaustion and nerves. Then he’d done the anxiety medication while with his family and without any schoolwork to do. By this point his anxiety medication had been at a very low dosage anyway. They didn’t know about the Neuralizine trial. He was an adult, and the research team would cover all expenses related to his participation, including reimbursement for transportation. His family was happy for Pierre to be on as little medication as possible.

“And on the first day we did group therapy - SULKY - together, didn’t you say that sometimes anxiety makes you nauseous rather than consciously feeling anxious?”

“Oh,” Pierre said. He felt stupid.

“It might be worth talking to a psychiatrist about that as well as the neurologist you’ve been assigned.”

“If I talk to my psychiatrist, my parents will wonder about the insurance charge for the consulting fee. I don’t want to lie to them but I don’t want to open the ‘medical experimentation’ can of worms.”

Friedrich casually scooped Pierre up. “Damn, you’re light. If only you knew another psychiatrist, one who’s given you his personal phone number because you’re close friends with his former foster son. If only you were also friends with benefits with a former exchange student he hosted, who might as well be his other foster son. If only he was flexible and kind enough and fond enough of you that he helped you cover up your absences last fall when looking for Chev.”

“Fine, I’ll call Doctor Washington.”

“In due time.” Friedrich carried Pierre out of the en suite bathroom and deposited him on his bed. Jemsa had the presence of mind to bring Pierre’s backpack from his seat at the dining hall, and also pick up his phone from where it had fallen on the pavement. Friedrich didn’t fetch it for Pierre yet, though, and he put a hand on Pierre’s chest to keep him in place, much like Jemsa had. “Not yet. Please, choose something to attempt to eat.”

“I don’t know if you’ll have it. And what if I throw up?”

“Then I’ll clean it up. What will you attempt to eat?”

“If you have condensed milk, I like condensed milk on toast when I don’t feel well.”

Friedrich ruffled his hair. “It just so happens that Benjy got a bunch, and there’s a bit left in the can. He made caramel sauce with most of it.”

“What’s the caramel sauce for?”

“I think he’s putting it on Will as we speak. They haven’t seen each other since before last exam season.”

This was the sort of house in which those sentences logically followed. “That’s nice.”

“Will’s not comfortable coming to the party next week, you see, so Benjy and I are planning to give him some attention this Saturday. Benjy’s taking the opportunity to start early. Will seems very upset about your fall. Anyway, do you want juice, too? Pineapple?”

“Uh huh.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Pierre was totally going to stay on the bed, but he remembered that he wasn’t done with his textbook reading, and he felt an overpowering urge to see exactly how much he had left. 

Friedrich came in with a tray, tapping the nearest wall with his left ankle as he went. He asked, “How much do you feel like submitting right now?”

When Pierre was with Lafayette and Adrienne, they did a low-key version of lifestyle D/S in which the default was him doing as they said, and being affectionately dominated whether or not they were in a scene, though only scenes used titles and formal rules. With Chev, Pierre submitting was strictly scene-only. With Reinette, formal scenes hadn’t been a thing, there had just been moments where Pierre was her sex toy before everything quickly went back to normal.

With Friedrich, it was somewhere in between. Usually it was more like with Chev, but sometimes Pierre was unhappy or tired (or occasionally playful and bratty) and wanted to stop being responsible for himself, on a level that wasn’t about kink so much as about comfort. Both of them had to agree, and either of them could make it stop at any time. Clearly Friedrich wanted to offer all the Pierre-care techniques in his toolbox.

If Pierre said no, Friedrich wouldn’t tell him not to do his homework. He might disagree with Pierre’s choices, but he’d stop at making requests and giving advice. He wouldn’t coddle. Pierre would decide everything for himself: whether to be a hardworking student, whether to rest and recover, whether to resist food, whether to welcome it. All this was up to Pierre, if he said no.

“Lots,” Pierre said softly. 

“Right then.” Friedrich put the tray on the edge of the bed and opened a drawer. He took out a coil of soft cotton rope and a pair of leather cuffs lined with dreamcloud-soft faux fur. “The pajamas you keep here are in their usual place in my bureau. Change into them and come back over here. Don’t bring anything from your bag.”

Tension Pierre hadn’t noticed drained away from him. He obeyed. Friederich tied a quick rope harness up and down his torso, having done it on Pierre, and presumably other rope subs before him, uncountable times. He cuffed Pierre’s hands separately to the sides of the harness, so they wouldn’t be smushed against the pillow he wedged between Pierre and the slatted headboard. Then he tied the harness itself to the headboard in a way Pierre couldn’t see.

Friedrich looked over his handiwork. “I don’t think you’ll wander off again. Now you’re going to eat what I give you, understand?”

Pierre nodded. His head was quiet, and he still felt queasy, but that was a distant concern. He let himself be fed two pieces of toast and a glass of juice.

“Do you feel more like you’re going to vomit than you did earlier?” Friedrich asked, brushing a crumb off Pierre’s bottom lip.

Pierre shook his head. “Still a little bit, though.”

“Let’s take a break and see how you feel then. I’ll call Chev for you, and then I’ll help you leave messages for the doctors.”

During Friedrich’s call to Chev, Pierre loudly announced to Chev that he was being loved and nurtured whether he liked it or not. Friedrich chuckled. After Pierre left the two messages, Friedrich kissed him and asked him what else he wanted to eat.

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

Pierre fidgeted in his bonds. “You know what always makes me relaxed and hungry?”

“Oh no you don’t.”

“Please, Baron?”

“I’m not going to - SULKY - fuck you when you had a head injury less than two hours ago. No matter how cutely you pout.” Friedrich drummed his fingers on Pierre’s kneecap in thought. “However.”

Pierre wasn’t surprised with the compromise - he’d just irrationally felt like it’d be oddly selfish asking for it himself. He happily accepted his usual gag in his mouth. Will and Benjy may have participated in a foursome with him, but he would have still felt-self-conscious if they were in the hallway and heard him moaning. Plus he liked gags. He lifted his hips so Friedrich could slide his pajama pants down, and melted when Friedrich put his hands on him. 

Coaxed to a tender climax, Pierre was grateful to have the ropes keeping him in place. Friedrich freed his mouth and kissed him before asking, “Well?”

“Maybe vanilla yogurt?”

“How about strawberry banana?”

“If it doesn’t have chunks in it.”

“It doesn’t. I can’t leave you here bound and unsupervised.”

“I don’t want you to untie me yet.” Pierre sounded silly to himself, but he couldn’t help saying it.

First Friedrich tossed the tissues he’d used to keep Pierre clean, then released Pierre from the headboard. He moved the handcuffs to in front of Pierre and clipped them to each other. He attached a short bit of cord to them and led Pierre to the kitchen. Yay.

Benjy, also in sleepwear, walked into the kitchen to find Pierre carefully eating yogurt with his wrists locked together and Friedrich sitting next to him, idly petting Azor. “You’re so cute,” he declared as he poured two glasses of water. Then he turned around and headed for the guest bedroom.

“Did he mean just me, or all of us?” Pierre asked.

“Azor is adorable. Do you want me to let you out so you can brush your teeth conveniently?”

“No.”

Friedrich insisted that if Pierre wanted to go to sleep with his wrists bound, it had to be with rope, and with a knot that Pierre knew how to get out of. He made Pierre demonstrate once and then re-tied it.

When he climbed into bed beside Pierre, he helped him get comfortable and carefully poked the head wound to make sure it didn’t hurt to a dire extent. “If it’s worth it to you, it’s worth it to you, but I do worry, you know.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I…” Suddenly Pierre felt his throat tighten and his body tense.

“What? Shit, what?”

“Sorry, it’s dumb.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Pierre would never tell Chev this, because Chev had experienced such severe bullying growing up that it made Pierre feel like complaining about a paper cut to someone with terribly scarred fingers. “Memories.”

“Pierre, you sound like you’re going to cry.”

“I was top of the debate team, despite the tics and technically not a native speaker. Bad enough. Then I had a really unfortunate series of verbal during one of the debates against another school...some of the kids said it didn’t matter how good I was, I made them lose…the day after, during lunch, someone threw an apple at the back of my head. It didn’t make me bleed but I had a lump for days, and I didn’t know who did it. I think that was the worst part. Every day, wondering who’d done it.”

Friedrich dried Pierre’s eyes for him and held him close. After a while he asked, “Would you like to hear more about the party?”

“Yes, please. Can I wear the sweater you knit me, with the sleeves that connect at the back? Will that be weird?” It felt almost more transgressive to be naked from the waist down, yet clothed from the waist up, than just walk around completely naked.

“Mein Schatz, you will be one of the least weird there, certainly the least weird of the subs who’ve asked to be in mild bondage. Someone’s going to be in ballet boots. I’ve told her I’m not responsible for tripping. Everyone has to be able to get around under their own power, that’s one of the rules. And nothing that an able-bodied helper can’t get off them with their bare hands.” Friedrich had emailed Pierre the list of rules when first inviting him - last year Pierre was visiting Lafayette and Adrienne and was also shy about the prospect. “There will be some who will have to ask others nicely if they want food or drink, whether because it’s part of a game or because they will need physical assistance. Having had a drink or two - there will be a cap - will not be an excuse for bad behavior. All the guests are good characters, not like the fuckhead who put you off going to dungeons with me.”

The man had been expelled forever, and also verbally eviscerated by Friedrich on his way out, but Pierre was skittish after that literally stolen kiss. The party would be different. Friedrich knew everyone. No outright sex or scenes, but the option of a bit of what the invitation called “familiarity”. 

“I was thinking of forbidding you to sit anywhere except the floor, someone’s lap, or a table.”

Pierre shivered pleasantly. “Why a table?”

“If you want to put yourself on display, that’s your choice. You’re welcome to make friends, or otherwise, though I imagine the latter might need discussion with Chev...” Friedrich flicked off the light but kept talking. He moved apart eventually, because he couldn’t sleep cuddling. And his words started slowing down, and were not always in English, but he kept a hand on Pierre’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another du Ponceau anecdote: When he was 15, his father died and he needed to go to work, though he was so smart that by this point he'd finished everything his school had to offer. He got a clerk-type job, and was very good at it. So good at it, apparently, that a few of his much-older coworkers became irritated and got their children to THROW APPLES AT THEIR 15 YEAR OLD COLLEAGUE WTF. At which point he decided he was tired of living on a tiny island, and went off to seek his fortune "with a copy of Paradise Lost in one hand and a clean shirt in the other". This isn't even the most nerdy story I've read in this bio far. Saving the nerdiest one (so far, he's only 21 by where I am in his recollections) for later.


	5. start with goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, weekend procrastination, don't you love it?
> 
> This may prompt dysphoria. I don't think so, but as I've never had it, I'm etting you know to be on the safe side.

Chev picked up an unexpectedly timid Will as well as Pierre that morning. Because they knew they’d have to pass for a cis woman for their errand tomorrow evening, they were going for the more masculine end of the scale today. No makeup. The boots of theirs that had subtle platforms, but square toes and laces and no embellishment. Slightly baggy jeans. They still wore one of the girlier wrap bracelets around their right wrist, though. From the collection they’d amassed to hide the scar. And the unofficial Slytherin scarf Friedrich knit them for Christmas was suitable for any gendered look. (Chev hadn’t expected him to give them something, but Friedrich accepted a stealthy photo of Mr. 15 not yet knowing he had pigeon droppings on an expensive shoe.)

“It’s a relatively dude-like day,” was all Chev said when Benjy looked them up and down. He’d met them a few times, all on considerably more androgynous days. 

“Do you plan on sitting with your legs spread obnoxiously wide and on plowing ahead on narrow sidewalks regardless if people are walking towards you?” Benjy asked good-naturedly as he helped Will into the backseat of Chev’s tiny car. “That’ll really sell it.”

“It’s amazing how much macho behavior doubles as assholery, doesn’t it? Now is Friedrich intending to give me my boyfriend back?” Chev waved at the two with exaggerated exasperation. Friedrich had Pierre crushed to his chest and was probably filling Pierre’s mouth with his tongue. It was Pierre who pushed himself free, and Friedrich who made a hilarious sad noise that he’d deny making until his dying day. 

“Thanks for taking care of me,” Pierre said over his shoulder as he got into the car.

“Yes, thank you,” Chev called out. They closed the window and started the car. “Buckle up, you two.”

Pierre twisted around to address Will. Chev could see in the rearview mirror that Will was more lounging than sitting. “Free tip: if it’s a classroom with attached desks, lean forward in the chair. If it’s a lecture hall, lean back. It helps. Especially if you’re, uh, not experienced.”

“Thanks. Um, do me a favor, and if you’re in earshot if I tell someone I overdid some stretches, don’t contradict me or snort or something.”

“Never. Also, that’s kind of the truth if you think about it.” 

Chev asked what actually happened, and Pierre told them. At first Chev was surprised that Will was so nonchalant about hearing it. Then they remembered the foursome both had been in together. It must really have broken the ice about these things. Anyway, Friedrich had been great, and Pierre had eaten a healthy breakfast and his head didn’t hurt. He was going to take off the bandage in a few hours if his moving around didn’t make him start bleeding again. 

Since they often parked near the dining hall anyway, and Pierre’s bicycle was still locked up near there, Chev dropped them off roughly where Jemsa had departed from. Will gave his thanks and practically sprinted towards class. Despite not being late. Pierre kissed Chev goodbye and started carefully walking away.

Then Chev remembered what they were about to do tomorrow. It wasn’t likely they’d die or anything, but they were stabbed through with nerves. Suddenly they wanted the goodbye to be more meaningful. There was the bandage, too, reminding Chev that in general, all the two of them were to each other, all their relationship could become, was packaged in all-too-fragile, risk-taking bodies. 

So they grabbed Pierre’s arm, and said, “I love you. I really love you. I don’t say it much because that’s how I am, but I love you.” Seriously, Lafayette wasn’t in romantic love with Pierre, and he was in France, and _he_ said it to Pierre more often than Chev did. At least, than they did with words.

“Are you okay? Are you feeling guilty about something?”

In some ways, Chev wasn't as brave as they wanted to be. They gave Pierre’s bottom a playful smack. “Ugh, just trying to be sincere here.” 

Pierre laughed. “Love you too.” He ran off.

***

Chev went to the campus post office that afternoon to check their box. They had some mail come to their apartment and some to the box they’d been using throughout their time at college. The latter was especially handy when they didn’t want to reveal exactly where they lived. Which they rarely wished to reveal.

Four pieces of mail. One was from the ACLU updating them on the activism they helped support with their $8 a month contributions. The second was a really late present from a French aunt, an iTunes gift card and a long letter in French that they’d take the time to read later. The third was a short note written in a numerical code, or a cipher.

Chev went to the library, which was nearby, to sit in a corner and puzzle it out. They took along the fourth item without opening it - it was from Eliza Schuyler, the nurse who’d helped them, and was almost certainly innocuous.

They looked at the return address again. Surprisingly, there was one. It was in McLean, Virginia.

Which most likely meant it was really from Langley. CIA HQ.

Again. The CIA had appointed the Agency a liaison/babysitter named Agent Armistead, to make sure the Agency kept a very delicate balance that involved not committing certain crimes, and sometimes doing contract work for the CIA without letting any of their other clients know. The Agency had people with unique skills who weren’t bound by paperwork. He seemed nice, which may well have just meant he liked to start off as Good Cop. 

Last time Agent Armistead had contacted them, it was a phone call to tell them he’d done a background check on them, and they were clear with the CIA _for now_. And that Chev should ask Mr. 15 what it would take for this situation to change. (Armistead didn’t speak for FBI, state, or local law enforcement, naturally. Or international law enforcement, but he’d be very impressed if Chev had trouble with that so early in their career.) There hadn’t been anything about riddle letters.

Chev looked at the beginning. There was a phrase all by itself in the top left corner: “cheque 2cts”. Throughout the letter, among the few words were “Fealty Tea”, which sounded like something from a gift shop near Boston Harbor. They felt like they should get it, but they were too tense right now. Also they were in public. They needed to let it percolate in their brain as they did other things.

They folded the letter into a small rectangle and tucked it into the sports bra that was making their chest nice and flat today. They folded the envelope into another small rectangle and slipped it under the waistband of their cotton briefs. The elastic held it in place. The envelope might provide further clues later.

If they got really desperate they could call Agent Armistead, but if it was something he could talk about over the phone, why would he have sent a letter instead?

Chev took a sip of water and turned their attention to a fourth item. They opened the envelope and a handmade hat, emerald green, fell out. The yarn was a cheap acrylic, but the design had intricate cables and perfect stitching. This hat had been made with care.

The accompanying card said: “Mx. d’Eon, I have started a prison knitting club, and we are sending gifts to those we have hurt or disappointed, as best we can. Feel free to throw it out if you don’t like it, but Eliza, who visits me for some reason, says you might keep it maybe. Thank you for speaking up for me when you didn’t have to. Otherwise I might not be getting things like knitting clubs, or seeing a therapist, or having a bit of hope. I’m sorry.”

It was signed “Louis D. Pontiere”.

Chev swallowed a lump in their throat and put on the hat. They looked at their reflection in the nearby window. It looked good on them.

***

“Hello, Chev.” The caller paused. She was prepared to pause for a long time, Chev knew, until she got the correct response before the conversation could continue. 

“Hello, Marie.”

“How are you?”

“I just finished class. A little stressed, I guess.” Another pause before Chev remembered to ask, “How are you?”

“I’m happy my cold is better. My wife said you have to make someone think you are a cis woman for a long time tomorrow, and that this is adding to your stress. She didn’t give more details than that. It was according to the agreement we have about how much she tells me about you.”

“Sounds like it was. And yeah, that’s true.” 

“If you have time, I am inviting you to dinner with us, and also for me to give you a manicure and pedicure.”

“Why?”

“Because you are stressed.”

Marie needed prodding sometimes to clarify her thought process in a way that actually clarified it. “Dinner with friends often helps people with stress, and I suppose getting your nails done helps many people, but why that specifically for me, when you’ve never heard me say that’s something I do?”

“Because you will have to present as female, which I know you are effective at because you went to a girls’ school for one and a half years. However, you are nervous, which means knowing you are effective isn’t enough. Having that femme detail might make you more confident. You have dresses and jewelry, but I have never seen you with nail polish, so you might not know how to put it on yourself. Also I am good at nail polish, and if you are good at something, it’s good to offer to do that thing when it might help people.”

It would take half an hour to get there, but Chev would get a delicious dinner with pleasant company, and if they stayed late they would be invited to stay overnight on the foldout couch. Marie’s logic made sense, too, all laid out like that. “Yes, that sounds lovely.”

“Only your fingernails will show, but your toenails will be better if they match your fingernails.”

“I bow to your expertise, ma’am. See you in forty minutes?”

“Yes. I will say hello when I see you in forty minutes. Goodbye.” She hung up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not explaining Marie and Armistead by default since they were also in Long Journey to Now, but if you need an explanation, please don't hesitate to ask.


	6. big boy blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first posted the previous chapter, I forgot to mention that the letter Chev got was mostly numerical, with just a few words. This is in case any readers read it before I edited it. Continuity!

Marie insisted on doing Chev’s nails in the living room, because the windows would get as much of the setting sun as possible. She learned that Chev would be wearing a red shirt, black skirt, and brown boots - with red jewelry and a red scarf - so she decided that their nails should be purple.

“Wait, what?” Chev asked as they obediently removed their fingers from the bowl of warm water.

“If you match too much, it’ll actually draw more attention than not matching at all, as long as I don’t do something wacky with decals. Trust me.”

She discouraged chit-chat while painting. Reinette was in the kitchen, with the stovetop fan on so loudly she couldn’t hear anything more than a foot away. Chev just sat and indulged Genevieve a little. (But not Charlotte, who’d been a lie to get them into that girls’ school. Chev had no love for her. Genevieve was natural and had a proper place.)

Then the front door crashed open with no warning. Chev sat at an angle where they couldn’t see who it was.

Marie got up and looked. She pursed her lips. “Stay right where you are. Don’t mess up the polish.”

“I forgot my gloves this morning!” wailed a familiar male voice from the foyer. Chev couldn’t name it right away. There was a faint French accent. Of course.

“That doesn’t mean you can barge in here!” Marie shouted. She ran towards the intruder and disappeared from Chev’s sight, too. “Or disrupt the - hey, you mustn’t rearrange the bookshelf, they’re like that for a reason. This is very rude of you. Are you listening to me?”

“I need my gloves. I’ve summoned Count Lascivious for a dressing-down, though not the way he’d like to interpret the word, and like hell is he going to be better-dressed than I am. Those are new gloves. Premium leather. Tailored, they’re tailored…”

“LUDVICO.”

In a quieter voice: “...Yes, madame?”

“First, if you’d just asked instead of abusing your spare key privileges, I found your gloves and will give them back to you when you’ve apologized. Also I have a guest, and I need to get back to them.”

“Marie, you’re being rude to me now.”

“We seem to disagree on a lot of things, Lu. I’m glad we divorced.”

She returned to Chev. Ludovico followed.

Chev found themself staring in mutual surprise and embarrassment at Mr. 15. His boss. His crime boss. Of crime. In an expensive suit and designer coat, as per usual. Marie nonchalantly got back to painting Chev’s nails.

After a long silence, Chev asked, “Is that your real name, sir?”

“No more than ‘Casey Nova’ is Lascivious’ real name, Cavalier,” Mr. 15 said, turning his face dispassionate and dignified. “He’s going to teach you some prison escape techniques pro bono as penance for his recent behavior, by the way.”

“I wasn’t going to call him Mr. 15 at home, that’s for sure,” Marie muttered. 

“Whatever you’ve inferred from this conversation, Cavalier, keep it to yourself, understood?”

Marie placed Chev’s completed hand on their knee and started on the other. “You’re the one who broke the rules. If you’d followed the Etiquette, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You have to mean it before I’ll give you the gloves.”

Reinette emerged into the living room. “Oh, hello Ludi -”

“NOT IN FRONT OF CAVALIER.”

“You said not to call you Mr. 15 in this house,” Marie pointed out.

Mr. 15 buried his face in his hands. “I am extremely sorry.”

“Marie, let’s not be mean. He has his pride.” Reinette fetched the gloves from a shelf otherwise full of photo albums. She handed them to him. 

He put them on and sheepishly cleared his throat. “Louise apologized.”

“Good. I would like to hear it from Miss O’Murphy herself. Or you could break up with her and send her into exile and make her change her name and arrange a hasty marriage for her, but the first one would be okay.” Reinette kissed him on the cheek and patted his arm. “There, there. Shhh.”

“Why did you have to do that in front of Cavalier?”

“Well, the cat’s out of the bag now, and you looked like you needed it.”

“They’re helping me prepare for tomorrow, sir,” Chev said.

“Marie doesn’t know details, just that Chev is going to be presenting as female,” Reinette added before Mr. 15’s frown got worse.

“Very well.” Mr. 15 made the ‘got my eyes on you’ gesture at Chev, then mimed throat-slitting. He spun on his heel and left.

Reinette sat next to Chev on the couch. “The funny thing is, if I were having sex with him, I think he’d be less embarrassed for people to find _that_ out.” 

“Not for lack of him offering,” Marie said, sounding triumphant. Yeah, Chev would be pleased too if they had romantic interest in Reinette and she’d chosen them. 

“His current girlfriend is more of an amusement for him, you see. Which is not healthy, but I don’t like her, which I admit makes me unfair about her. He and Marie are kind of brother-sister now. I didn’t know about their relationship when he asked me to keep tabs on her. I thought she was just another one of the witnesses he pays off. She thought I was from social services, and told me she hasn’t needed social services for years now, but invited me to coffee. He took an annoyingly long time to connect the dots for us. Anyway, he and I are not so much friends as, like…” she searched for the term.

“Queerplatonic?” Chev suggestion.

“Hm, no, more one-sided in dynamic. With more emphasis on facepalming and calling him out on his bullshit. Privately, of course. He is still the head of the Agency.” Reinette snapped her fingers. “Moirails! I’m his moirail.”

“It is against the Etiquette for her to talk about Homestuck anymore unless someone asks,” Marie informed Chev.

Reinette grinned. “Can I talk about how strangely attractive and interesting Casey is, despite also being a teensy bit of a jerk, and why Chev should look forward to meeting them?”

“Okay. But I’m not going to talk anymore until I’ve finished the toenails, too.” Marie went silent as promised. 

“Don’t be too worried when he starts hitting on you, by the way, Chev. Casey, I mean.” 

Chev raised an eyebrow. “When?”

“When. It’s how he relates to people within a certain age range. He stops when he notices it’s not working - unless it’s part of a job, in which case he’s more persistent - or you can just tell him to quit it. He knows a lot about being a con artist, which you might like to pick up, since you’re good at manipulating people already…”

***

Conversation was good, dinner was great, and the ladies gave them some quiet time to do homework. They decided to sleep on the pullout sofa-bed, when invited to do so. 

In the dusk between being awake and slipping into slumber, Chev realized something.

The stairway light flicked on, and Reinette called from the top of the stairs, “Chev, did you just shriek the word ‘anagram’?”

“Yes, sorry, had a nightmare about Pierre and his tics getting worse and not better,” Chev replied. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Thank you. Goodnight.”

In the darkness, Chev cursed leaving the mysterious letter back at their apartment. Now they’d have to wait hours before they could get a look at it. It was so obvious in hindsight.

Fealty Tea. 

_Lafayette._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Ludovico is a more obscure variation of Louis. 
> 
> \- More on Marie-Louise O'Murphy/Morphi later, but she was an Irish-French (I didn't know there was an Irish immigrant community in France back then!) woman who served as one of Louis XV's many "little mistresses". Those were mistresses who were more like sugar babies. Court mistresses were like unofficial queens/princesses. After two years, she tried to usurp Madame du Pompadour, and was sent away and ordered to marry. The king ordered his minions to select a young, handsome man with a good reputation, though, and paid a big dowry. I suppose he had pity for someone who made such a colossal error of judgment as to piss off du Pompadour. 
> 
> \- Louis XV was friendly with his wife and visited her often in the years after she refused to sleep with him anymore, after all those pregnancies that miscarried or resulted in quick infant death and/or nearly killed her. He also frequently went to relax in Madame du Pompadour's "small but comfortable" chambers, where she arranged intimate and cozy dinner parties and listened to his troubles and gave him advice, even after she stopped sleeping with him. I have mixed these things together. 
> 
> \- I'm not into Homestuck, but I love the troll quadrants for other kinds of love. Just like how I'm not into D&D, but I love the moral alignment chart. I like sorting story elements.
> 
> \- Among his exploits, Casanova was eventually banned from France by guess which king, and managed multiple prison escapes (and one attempt that was really close to succeeding before he was moved to a different cell). He also convinced people he was an alchemist, sold lottery tickets, and oh yeah, spied.
> 
> \- Casanova had sex with a few men, too. Amazing how often that doesn't get mentioned.
> 
> \- In Doctor Who, Madame du Pompadour/Reinette Poisson kisses the Tenth Doctor, played by David Tennant. There is a miniseries in which David Tennant plays Casanova. Joke had to be made. Though with my Reinette, I waver between imagining her as DW-version (Sophia Myles, white), or as Naomi Harris (black) as Eve Moneypenny in Skyfall, or sometimes the historical version herself. She's all to me. You may continue to imagine her as you like, just thought you might be interested.


	7. satellite love

Over the course of the day, Doctor Chovet and Doctor Washington got back to him and said essentially the same things: your symptoms are unfortunate, and keep an eye on them, but there’s no need to take action just yet. It’s an adjustment period. Nothing necessarily dire or bizarre going on. 

Relieved, Pierre ate dinner with Jemsa again to reassure his friend that he was going to be okay. By then he’d removed the bandage. They ate at five-thirty because Jemsa had an evening class on Thursdays. During their six PM check-in, Pierre learned that Chev was at Reinette and Marie’s house, which was great. He sent a bunch of mushy emojis. Jemsa amiably teased him.

He rode his bicycle home before dark, did a bit of homework, and decided to cook a whole bunch of Improvisational Soup and freeze blocks of it to dole out on days when eating at the dining hall would be impractical. He put on a playlist of acappella covers of songs from the Bly musical to listen to while cooking. He found half a box of pasta, some red potatoes that were starting to look funny, odds and ends of carrots and celery, minced pork from a miserable failure to learn how to make _jiaozi_ from Youtube (the dumpling wrappers kept falling apart)…

It would be nice to cook with Chev, who was better at it, but Chev was so busy and Pierre had time and energy today. Besides, while it was nice to have had people taking care of him these past two days, he wanted to do something that was inarguably taking care of himself by himself.

When he got to the point where everything was in the pot and simmering nicely, he checked his email for the first time in hours. Hey, he’d been busy, and he didn’t want to be rude and check his email during dinner with a friend if he wasn’t expecting something vital.

He gasped.

_To our friends and family,_

_We joyfully announce the birth of our daughter Henriette. She was so eager to meet us that she rushed her arrival, and consequently will need a little more devotion and attentiveness than the majority of her peers. We are glad to give it. She is home and settling in well. Please no well-wishing visitors until otherwise stated, to give her time to rest and grow._

  _To answer a frequently asked question: Handmade and intangible gifts are welcome. Those desiring to give gifts that cost money, please instead donate to Unicef (aiding children), Doctors Without Borders (aiding the sick), and/or Amnesty International (aiding victims of unjust imprisonment, especially political, which is unrelated to Henriette but important to us). We have all the material goods anyone could possibly need._

_Thank you for loving us, and all your support. We love you._

  _A & G _

 

Followed by unbearably cute pictures, though they worried Pierre slightly because Henriette was tinier than any baby he’d ever seen.

It had to be after midnight there, but Pierre opened up Skype and messaged the account Adrienne and Lafayette shared, congratulating them and saying how much he missed them, even though it had only been two-ish months and it wasn’t like he used to see them more than once a month or so anyway. He turned back to his soup in order to fling in guesstimates of how much of certain herbs he wanted. He’d put in a chicken stock cube to start with.

 Then his laptop - balanced on a safe part of the counter, of course - started to bloopbebloop at him.

 It was Adrienne, lit by a single lamp, nursing Henriette. She said, in English, “Pierre, I could do with some company as well as some English practice. I have hardly spoken a word of it since we left, and that is not okay.”

“Sure! Hi! Oh, wow, uh, I’m. I don’t know what to say. Baby. You made one.”

“So I did. With help, but I would say I did most of the work.” She had a nightgown and cardigan on, just strategically unbuttoned. Henriette was in a blue and yellow onesie and tiny socks. Tiny. How could socks be that tiny and yet fit all the requirements of being socks?

“I assume your assistant in that matter is asleep.” Pierre would have liked to see him, but he wanted Lafayette to be rested.

Adrienne adjusted the way she was holding her daughter before replying. “Yes. He was in meetings all day. I am not complaining about wealth, but I worry for all the vultures it draws, if that makes sense. Gilbert’s in a complicated position.”

“I can imagine. You know -” Then Pierre blushed and fell silent.

She gave him a moment to regroup, but when he didn’t, she said, “Speak your mind.”

“It’s weird.”

“I’ve put my entire right hand inside you; I think we are past the point where I will be perturbed by something you say.”

Pierre didn’t think those two things were mutually inclusive, but she’d gone into her Marquise-voice and he had very little resistance to that. “I was thinking that breasts have, uh, quite the dual nature, and how weird it is that I’ve…”

“Yes?”

“That I’ve sucked there too.” He hid his face in the crook of his arm. For some reason, despite being pansexual, Pierre got much shyer when discussing sexual things he’d done with women.

“Oh, you’re precious. It is funny, isn’t it? If you were here now I would of course not allow you.”

“Of course. They’re for her. I was just borrowing them.

Both started laughing, until Henriette made a dissatisfied noise. Adrienne gently removed her from that breast and started patting her back. “She sucks slowly and without much force, compared to others, so I must be careful she has enough.”

“Is she going to be....” The word ‘normal’ sounded insulting and inaccurate, but Pierre wasn’t sure what to put there instead.

Henriette burped and Adrienne kissed her forehead. She guided her to the other breast. “She will be what she needs to be, and we will do everything necessary.”

“Um. My - I was premature, though not much.”

“And look how you turned out.”

“I have a family history of the women having birth and pregnancy difficulties.”

“Pierre. Stop. What is it we have said to you every time you ruminate on this topic?”

“Just a sec, I’m cooking.” Pierre turned and gave the soup a few stirs. He pushed down the spike of anxiety, then he turned back around. “You have said that my penis has gone into your vagina only six times, and always with a condom, and with your husband it’s dozens at least, more often unprotected than not. Also, the timing make its even less likely.”

“And?”

“And that even - even if somehow...you wouldn’t care.” But the anxiety had its claws around his heart, rising up in his throat to choke him from the inside. “What if -”

“Will it make you feel better if we promise to tell you if she develops Tourette’s Syndrome?”

“Yes.”

“Promised.”

Pierre fetched himself a glass of water. When he got back, Adrienne was nudging Henriette. “You need to stay awake and finish, little angel,” she said in French.

“Does she fall asleep while feeding?” Pierre asked, automatically in French.

Adrienne stubbornly returned to English. “Not completely, but she becomes drowsy and leaves off. She needs to gain weight. She’ll be bigger when you visit. You are, in fact, going to visit us this summer.”

“Yes. Probably only a few days, though. I’ll be traveling around with my parents most of the summer. Family vacation. We haven’t done one in ages. They spend a lot of time apart from each other, and me. Busy. I won’t do an internship or anything, not like usual.” This was partly for family togetherness, and partly because the researchers wanted to get data from a relatively idle Pierre in addition to the usual Pierre.

“Your parents would be welcome to visit as well, so long as we do not develop a situation where things become awkward.” She smirked. “It would be best if they weren’t around the entire time.”

“You can say that again.”

“You can hold Henriette when you are here. Remind Chev that we are happy to host them even when you aren’t here. This château is too large.” Adrienne closed her eyes for a moment. “It will be more large soon, in a sense. If you speak to Gilbert, don’t bring this up unless he does, but his grandmother is very ill. Don’t feel neglected.”

“I won’t. Either thing.” Pierre knew Lafayette had been raised by his grandmother. He also knew Lafayette’s mother was alive, but that was the sort of thing you leave alone if the other person constantly glosses over it.

“If you hear something about Gilbert that sounds off, discuss it with me before making a judgment. There are people in the local government trying to discredit him.”

“WTF?”

“I know.” Adrienne rubbed Henriette’s back. “I’ll be nursing for at least another fifteen minutes, so let’s maybe speak of happier matters. You haven’t ticced once this entire conversation. A new treatment? Also I understand you and Chev are looking to live together starting in the fall? Lucky person. All I can do is love you in the way I do, and from afar.”

  
“That’s a lot,” Pierre said, wishing he could put the hand through the screen and touch Henriette’s soft-looking black hair.


	8. a silly ordeal for me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The section in italics is originally from the last part of [5 Triggering Incidents (+1 Time When it Was Beneficial)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8332009) When Chev gets triggered. I apologize for just inserting it in there, especially since the tense is different, but I couldn't figure out how to rewrite it in a way that really added something. It was making me reluctant to write the chapter until I decided you will probably forgive me. That passage is one of the reasons I started this fic, and it's nice to put it in context finally.

“Hop in! Now!”

Chev leapt into the passenger seat - one of the reasons they wore short skirts with tights rather than wearing long skirts was to keep from getting caught in car doors - and Shaka sped off without waiting for Chev to fasten their seatbelt.

“Briefing in glove compartment?” Chev asked, by this point more-or-less rhetorically. Shaka nodded and almost-illegally swung them through a turn. 

Then it was traffic, and then all he could do was breathe. “Sorry I was a few minutes late, Cavalier. Took me longer than I expected to disengage the flamethrower. Forgot to factor in the cold weather impact on the metal.”

“You do realize that car thieves here, unlike in Johannesburg, will think your bumper sticker is a joke.” All Shaka’s cars had bumper stickers saying “CAR IS BOOBY-TRAPPED”. 

Shaka shrugged. “Not my fault. Practice seeming like a good girl and do your reading.”

Mr. 15 vastly preferred to communicate either face-to-face or through hard copies of files physically handed from one agent to another. Mostly this didn’t work, since most of the time the Agency handled most of its employees remotely. Also, he said Chev needed to be able to absorb information quickly. Marie said he had procrastination issues, too.  

The first sheet of paper was a contract Chev was supposed to convince Ching Shih to sign, promising mutual non-interference with the Agency. Her people would not deliberately come after any of his, his people would back off from jobs that her people wanted, and she was cordially invited to hire any one of the Agents if she wished. Also nobody would snitch on anybody else.

The second was a list of rules and manners for the meeting. There wasn’t a biography of the woman herself. It was unspoken that Chev would be a poor excuse for a trainee if they couldn’t track down publicly available information on their own. They knew she spoke Cantonese, Mandarin, and English, and had operations throughout Guangzhou province, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Macau, and huge sections of the South China Sea. Her ranks were disciplined and orderly, and numerous, and very loyal.

Many said she was older than she looked. Some said she’d been among the last to grow up in the lawless criminal hive of Kowloon Walled City, right on the border of Hong Kong, before the government tore the whole place down in the late ‘70s. A few said that at a distressingly tender age she’d clawed her way out of an abusive brothel, and eventually married a gangster for love. According to this rumor, he’d made her his right-hand woman, and his heir upon his untimely death. Then she’d started expanding his empire and never stopped.

Chev had said “wow” aloud.

The only crimes there was sufficient evidence to convict her for were all related to the manufacture and distribution of counterfeit items, and laundering the money earned thereof. This was one meaning of the “Pirate Empress” nickname. This was similar to how Al Capone was imprisoned for tax evasion when it was generally understood that he’d done far more than that. There was a far more literal meaning for “Pirate Empress”. 

She was supposed to be courteous and honorable, keeping her promises and not tolerating excess force. Of course, that meant she had very little tolerance for others not matching her. To that end, over lunch today Chev learned how to say “Empress” and “Pirate Empress” in Mandarin, after asking Pierre how to say a whole lot of other things, too. Nothing wrong with knowing extra phrases Chev had used to hide the important ones.

Mr. 15’s rules further refined this. The rules included that although it was standard in Chinese culture to turn down refreshments once or twice before accepting, Ching Shih did not expect them to know that. In fact, they should eat or drink everything she offered. To do otherwise would be to insult her hospitality. They shouldn’t lie to her more than strictly necessary, and they should be as honest and open as they could be without compromising the Agency (like hell would Chev compromise Pierre, though). They must be completely unarmed. The list ended with the note that she wouldn’t have them killed in a peaceful meeting, but they might get beaten up if they displeased her. And they’d get a big chunk taken out of their next paycheck if they failed to get her to sign. Yay.

“My job, other than driving, is to discreetly get you help if you get hurt, or rush in to help you if another party attacks during the meeting and nobody is prioritizing your safety in the crossfire,” Shaka explained when asked. His steering wheel cover had lots of strategically placed decorative spikes. At least Chev thought they might have been decorative. When they knew Shaka better, they might ask him if he liked _ Mad Max: Fury Road. _

The third sheet of paper was Chev’s schedule for tomorrow:

8:00-10:00 Personal Trainer

11:00-12:00 Psychotherapy 

1:30-? HQ

Headquarters, such as they were, took Chev about an hour to get to. Chev noted that the personal trainer time was an hour later than usual, maybe as a concession to them working this evening, which was considerate. Not everything that was part of their training took place at HQ. Shaka had found Chev a completely normal personal trainer, trans-friendly, who just wanted to help Chev get fit. 

“I got a report of your progress,” Shaka said, then paused to growl something in isiZulu at a passing truck, complete with clicks. “Yes. By June I think you will be ready to train with me instead. I’ve been thinking about it ever since we met and you established that you don’t wish to be an offensive killer. She sent me your height and weight and a few things, but since we are here, and not even on the highway yet, I want to ask…”

“Yes?”

“I realize you like these things to be private. And it’s good, strategically. But I need to know when deciding what styles of fighting to teach you. How much does it hurt you to get hit between your legs?”

Chev expected he’d ask them this at some point. “As much as, or possibly slightly more than it hurts you.”

“More?”

“Is it important for you to know why?” It had to do with ratios and proportions and things Chev’s parents had discussed with doctors far too many times, because it was apparently their business that their kid was shaped weird in a way that was medically benign. 

“No. Hmm. We’ll have to establish your precise center of gravity as well. Given your build and your fencing experience, the emphasis will definitely be on speed and agility. You’re never going to be physically strong enough for it to count in a crisis. I was impressed to hear about you choking someone…”

“Could we talk about that later, please?” Chev was worried that Shaka might get angry at that, but it just came out.

“You’re right. You should probably focus. Leave any forms of ID and otherwise with your name on it with me, along with any pepper spray or so on you have in that purse of yours.” 

After more than an hour of driving, they arrived at a small strip mall. Chev noted the street signs. “This is pretty close to that Vietnamese-and-a-little-bit-Chinese shopping center. Eden Center.” 

“Is it?”

Chev checked on their phone. Pierre had guided them to Eden Center once, and after lunch and some chit chat with strangers that Chev enjoyed listening to, he’d bought lots of treats he associated with his grandparents’ house. All the signs there were in Vietnamese. It was the focal point of a substantial enclaves, though New Orleans a had much bigger Vietnamese immigrant community. “I wonder what she’s doing in the U.S. It can’t just be that the Chinese government’s cracking down on her, can it?”

“Don’t speculate in her hearing.” Shaka found a parking spot and pointed at a bubble tea shop. “It’s one of her fronts. Apparently she’s personally sold it at local fairs as a way to get a measure of the populace, though the shops have normal employees. Go in the back entrance. You have eight minutes before rendezvous.”

Chev handed over various contraband. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to stay here and work on my current project of devising ways to use a single, detached adult tooth as a weapon. Imagine that you’re in a fight and one of your teeth gets knocked out, or you knock out someone else’s. Why waste a potential resource?” He held up a sketchbook full of diagrams and notes, and pulled the rest of his necklace out from under his shirt. It was a real bicuspid with a hole drilled in it, strung on the leather cord.

This was not the time to ask whose tooth that was. “Okay. And what do I do if I’m in trouble?”

“Devise a signal that I’ll recognize. Be creative.”

Chev gave him the universal face for “Are you kidding me??”

“Also I’ll investigate if you’re gone more than, ohhh, maybe two hours. Look, I like you, but I’m not going to wrap you in cotton wool. Some teaching that would be! You’ll be fine. She’s positively cuddly compared to plenty you’ll be dealing with when you’re working for real.” Shaka made a shooing motion. “Not so cuddly to the tardy, though.”

With a sigh, Chev started on their way to the bubble tea shop. They’d wanted the confidence-booster of their highest-heeled boots, but they’d worn something more flat and practical in case they needed to run. Yet still girly, of course. They checked their makeup in their compact mirror as they walked. Pretty, not gorgeous. Not a threat. Just a messenger.

It heartened them to see that the shop itself was open and doing brisk business. That meant Ching Shih didn’t expect there to be gunfire, at least. Unlike in movies, silencers didn’t make gunshots nearly inaudible. Customers would notice.

They circled around to the back door. They sent a quick text. “Might not answer phone bc busy, but all’s well. Have fun with Friedrich tonight, <3 you.” They turned it off. Didn’t want to be rude.

They knocked on the door.

 

***

_ It’s really good bubble tea, actually. Chev takes a demure sip as Ching Shi purses her lips and drums her long fingernails on the tabletop. Ching Shi’s bodyguard, standing two paces behind her, is staring into the middle distance most of the time but occasionally flicks his eyes to Chev. _

_ “So your people are offering a pact of mutual non-interference while I remain in the country.” _

_ “Yes, Empress.” _

_ She half-smiles at that. “This is predicated on the notion that I consider you any sort of challenge. Why should I limit my fishing on the basis of minnows’ requests?” _

_ “You catch bigger fish if you don’t waste your time getting minnows out of the way, Empress.”  _

_ She outright laughs, and Chev takes a bite from one of the small cookies also on the table as a tiny celebration. _

_ Then the taste hits their tongue. Their throat constricts. All finesse, decorum, sense, even the concept of time is forgotten and Chev retches. Chev chokes. Chev almost throws up. _

_ Ching Shih’s bodyguard’s hands are on them, but to support them rather than in any form of restraint. He offers Chev some water, and Chev drinks it gratefully. The rest of the cookie has fallen to the floor. _

_ “Young miss, are you ill from almonds?” _

_ The other instruction: don’t lie to Ching Shih in peaceful negotiations. About anything. Don’t volunteer information, but don’t lie. Apparently nothing would enrage her faster. _

_ “No, Empress. I had a bad experience with them. Thank you for your concern.” Chev tries more bubble tea. It helps. _  
  


_ “Oh?” She clearly wants more. _

_ Chev inwardly shrugs. Why the hell not, by this point? “My ex-lover and his new lover imprisoned me for several days and gave me nothing but energy bars to eat. Vanilla almond flavor.” _

_ Ching Shi hums thoughtfully. “I hope they got their due.” _

_ “They did.” _

_ She ends up signing the agreement, and calls in someone else to wheel in a scanner/photocopier because what, don’t you have one of those at all times? “Take care, young miss. I advise telling others you are allergic, and mastering your reaction when it is not possible to avoid.” She doesn’t bow when Chev bows to her, of course, but she declines her head slightly, which is notable. _

_ When Chev is at a safe distance, they call Mr. 15. “Ah, Mx. Cavalier. I hope you have good news.”  _

_ “She signed it. Sir, did you know she habitually serves almond cookies when she has covert agents of gray-area secret organizations over for tea?” _

_ “I was counting on it. They’re her favorite. You’re a very good actor, Cavalier, but she gets very upset if she thinks she’s being manipulated, so I didn’t tell you. I needed your reaction to be authentic.” _

_ “But what was the point of that? Sir?” _

_ “She’s known to have a soft spot for victims of any form of domestic or sexual violence. Within her ranks, it’s harshly punished, and rapists are outright executed. She has been known to be especially merciful to survivors of such things, whether or not they were at the hands of anyone who works for her. Some say she used to be a sex worker, but I don’t really care. Your femme self inspires strong protective instincts when showing genuine distress. Insurance against if the Empress was in a mood today.” _

_ “I'm feeling a little resentful about this.” Chev does something daring for someone who's been an employee for only a few months, and doesn't add an honorific. _

_ All that happens is light sarcasm. “You’ll get the standard ‘waaah my boss lied to me so that the mission would be successful’ bonus, Cavalier, and remember that I’m giving you the week before exams off as well as exam week itself, plus graduation, and, oh yeah, all summer off for you to enjoy France to your little heart’s content.” It would look weird for Chev to back out of a summer job they'd worked very hard to get before the Agency recruited them, but sometimes  _

_ Mr. 15 acts like letting Chev go to France is a huge favor. _

_ “Yes, sir. Anything else?” _

_ “No. Well done. This is what we do, you know, hire people with very specific attributes to fulfill very specific needs, our own or our clients’.” _

_ “Including triggers.” _

_ “Sometimes you can aim a trigger before you pull it.” _

_ Chev rolls their eyes and ends the call. They make another call. _

_ (Pierre never tastes like almonds. Nor is he vanilla in any way.) _

***

“Hey, I hope I’m not interrupting something, sweet P.”

“You kinda are, but this is more important. What’s up?”

“Uh...do you want some canned lychee? Reinette suggested a little place near Eden Center for this evening, and it’d be easy to swing by the store you liked so much. Tell your Baron it was a time-sensitive call.”

“Sure! I’ll pay you back. And I will. Anything else?”

“Nah, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Kay, goodb-” Pierre, rather predictably, didn’t get a chance to finish the word, though that was a memorable noise. Chev snickered and hung up.

Shaka agreed and took the opportunity to find a bathroom. Chev found a ladies’ room to use inside the store itself. No problems resulted, thankfully. 

Chev got a few other things they remembered from that the date, too. They needed something else to taste. They started on a fresh baguette segment on the way home. Nothing on it. Just baguette. Cleansing baguette.

The car ride was silent for the first twenty minutes or so. Then Chev said, “You know, they fly the South Vietnamese flag at Eden Center. The side that allied with the USA and lost.” Shaka wasn’t American, so quick context seemed appropriate. Tables turned, Chev would have been baffled by references to the Boer War. 

“Interesting.” Was Shaka aware that Chev was shaken up, or was he just not in the mood for talking?

“Because it seems weird for her to be hanging out in Northern Virginia instead of San Francisco or New York, with lots and lots of Chinese diaspora all in one place. But there are a lot of South Vietnamese immigrants, first through third or fourth generation, around here. Though that begs the question of why she’s not with the huge community in New Orleans - after the fall of Saigon, they went for a similar climate, and the many Catholic ones were sponsored by the many Catholic charities.” Pierre said of all the ethnic groups in New Orleans, the Vietnamese had the least hard time with recent hurricanes.

“She might be splitting her time. Don’t think bubble tea is as popular there. I’ve been there for contract work, though I admit I was distracted. But that begs the further question of why she’s dealing with South Vietnamese in the U.S. at all.”

Chev considered everything Pierre had told them. “South Vietnamese immigrant community equals perhaps not so content with current government there. Vietnam controls a portion of the South China Sea. Where she operates.”

“Sounds plausible. Tell Mr. 15, see what he thinks. Having some idea of what the heavyweights are up to is important for lightweight division.” Shaka flicked on his turn signal. “Stop eating that baguette. Empty calories. I’ll buy you dinner, bill the Agency as me teaching you a diet for building muscle mass or...whatever we think His Highness will believe.”

“Thanks.” Chev was glad they would be talking to Doctor Suriyaren tomorrow. Meanwhile, whistle in the dark. “What’d you come up with?”

  
“You mean the tooth? Throwing seems obvious and requires great finesse. You could mash it into someone’s eye…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up deciding that Chev has Doctor Suriyaren as a therapist despite the repeat for three reasons:
> 
> \- Angelica, who knows about the Agency, has a history of recommending Doctor Suriyaren to people. Members of the Agency have a history of trusting Angelica.
> 
> \- Ching Shih kinda fits the "Dragon Lady" stereotype, so I wanted a very different Asian woman to counterbalance. Just as the two "canon" black men of the story, Shaka Zulu and James Armistead, are meant to counterbalance each other. All are awesome in their own way, but different levels of lawfulness, aggression, etc.
> 
> \- I've had to make up so many therapists for this AU. I'm tired. (exaggerated fake crying at the weird position I've put myself in)
> 
> Refreshers:  
> Ching Shih's background was much as I described for her modern self, except for the places that didn't exist yet. The real one ended up being such trouble for the Chinese government to take down that they simply offered her amnesty if she retired. She did, bought a gambling house, and died old and rich. I made up most of her personality except for the executing rapists thing. That's real.
> 
> Shaka Zulu, or at least his army, had the innovations of an improved spear that was much more effective in close combat, and shields covered in soaked, dried, and thus hardened leather that could withstand one shot from a British musket. By the time the British had time to reload, the Zulu were upon them. They eventually lost to the British, but they put up an unprecedented native-peoples fight, which is impressive for an army that didn't have guns.
> 
> Oh, by the way, the flamethrower car booby-trap is based on present-day fact. There are urban South Africans who have gone to serious lengths to prevent car theft. I also read of a car that wouldn't let the thief drive...or get out. Meanwhile, Shaka's statement about not planning to wrap Chev in cotton wool is based on something my South African PE teacher used to say to us at an international school I attended for a few years.


	9. catch yourself a looker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is somewhere between a heavy M and a light E, sex-wise. Think a full BDSM scene, but where the genital actions are glossed over. If it's not your thing, feel free to skip, and I will have a summary of important plot elements at the beginning of the next chapter.
> 
> Additionally, you can skip to the last section, which contains the most important plot element and no sex.
> 
> P.S. If you read this, coffeecrowns, this is especially for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains extremely well-negotiated, very healthy, loving, Safe-Sane-Consensual consent play. There is also ice play, along with the usual bondage, anal sex (that's never detailed), and aftercare that I have made standard parts of my version of this pairing.

Of all Pierre’s kinks, only one had ever given him much angst. By last October, he had finally reached a comfortable point with Friedrich where they could both enjoy their version. Then Chev had been kidnapped for several days, and Pierre had spent the entire time terrified in the back of his mind about what might be happening to their longtime friend and new datefriend. 

So no more abduction roleplay, or anything like it. No more. Ever. Just imagining it made Pierre feel sick and scared. However, the kink, the core of it, didn’t go away, and Chev had eventually coaxed Pierre’s anxieties out of him and absolved him for liking something. “It’s a pre-existing quirk in your head, nothing to do with me and no commentary on your feelings. Also, it’s not like I get hurt from you eating almonds, either,” they’d said. 

As a result, Pierre and Friedrich had talked over what they both liked about consent play, what they didn’t need, and what Pierre could no longer enjoy. This would be the second time they tried a scene like this. The first one had gone well.

Pierre would pretend that a version of his subspace self, that existed only for Friedrich to play with, didn’t want to play, and Friedrich would pretend not to care what his plaything wanted. Negotiations had already been done, but they did a bit more during their early dinner together, and then they took Azor for a walk as a digestion-and-thought-processing break.

Pierre had a kink for orgasm delay that Friedrich was completely neutral on, but participated in for Pierre’s sake. Similarly, Friedrich had a thing where he liked to pretend that Pierre’s “non-con persona”, whom they called “the plaything” or “the doll”, stayed in a box when he wasn’t being used. Pierre didn’t find this sexy, but it didn’t bother him either. Plus, it helped settle the ever-awkward question of what position everyone should be in when they started a roleplay such as this. 

It was actually a big cage Azor stayed in if Friedrich was throwing a non-dog-friendly party. Pierre could sit in it comfortably, or lie curled on his side. They removed the dog accessories first, because Pierre was really, really not into roleplaying as an animal, and Friedrich wasn’t enthusiastic either.

Pierre got clean inside and out, then changed into one of Friedrich’s old t-shirts, soft with many years of washing, and drawstring pajama pants. The two of them went downstairs to the basement, with all the repurposed furniture and both improvised and specially purchased equipment. Because this was reality and the house was only so large, the playroom was next to the room with the utilities and the washing machine. 

In a pleasant coincidence, a recent threesome between Friedrich, Benjy, and Will had hit upon the interesting fact that sometimes sub-mode Will liked being told to do the laundry. Mostly because he liked being yelled at if he did it “wrong”. It was a good thing Friedrich had someone else to enjoy his kink for verbally humiliating someone, because Pierre’s sensitive subspace self would have started crying about thirty seconds in. 

“Ready?” Friedrich asked, handing Pierre the copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance that Pierre had been nibbling at during calm moments in past visits and sleepovers. He liked to imagine that the version of him that would keep this “doll” in a cage in the basement would also give him books to read, and a blanket and pillow, and take him out for meals and bathroom breaks and the occasional getting to watch a movie and other treats. The most important component of this fantasy would be that the doll’s (probably not human) psychological makeup made him generally content with this treatment. Only sometimes, there was a bit of a tantrum that had to be dealt with.

Pierre was just happy Friedrich had eventually opened up about this. It had taken ages. 

“Ready!” Pierre climbed into the cage. He settled into the two blankets - one was acting as a rug - and leaned against the pillow, and picked up where he’d left off reading earlier. Friedrich shut the door without locking it, turned the lights off except for one lamp near the cage, and went away.

No Baron and sweetheart/cutie/etc tonight. No Master and captive/slave ever again. Time for Owner and doll.

***

When Owner entered and flicked the lights on, he said cheerfully, “Hello, precious thing, it’s time for some fun.” 

“No, I’m busy,” his doll said without looking up. He thought of himself as “the doll” because “plaything” had the word “play” in it, which got said a lot, and it got repetitive. 

“Put that down. You can read later.”

“I’m at a good part.”

“You know, I could stop giving you things to read.”

The doll didn’t like this idea and put the book down. He scooted away from the door, though, and hugged his knees. “I don’t want to play right now.”

“If only that mattered to me,” Owner said. He opened the door, reached in, and pulled his doll out by the wrists. Owner himself was wearing a big, funny bracelet. “No pouting. Clothes off.”

“No!” The doll slipped from his grasp and ran to hide under the bed. He was smaller than Owner, and if he went deep under the bed it would be hard to get him out. 

But Owner was fast, and tackled him onto the floor as hard as he could without damaging him. Good dolls are hard to find, so smart owners don’t damage one if they’re lucky enough to have one. The doll was pinned onto his back. He shrieked. He struggled and tried to get back on his feet.

The funny bracelet was really a roll of silver tape. Owner peeled off one edge and grabbed both the doll’s wrists in one hand, pressed against the floor, lifting them just long enough to wrap the tape around and around many times. Then he tore that bit off and patted the end in place. He got up for a second, and the doll tried to roll and crawl for a hiding place again, but he caught the doll by one ankle right away. He hauled the doll back towards him and pulled off the doll’s pants.

“No, no, put those back, I’m cold and I don’t want you to touch me,” the doll whimpered. 

“No books for a week and no pillow for two days if you don’t stop squirming,” Owner said sternly.

The doll whined and went limp, like a ragdoll, not a fuckdoll like he truly was. Owner pulled the shirt up the doll’s arms and put tape around them so they were wrapped around the doll’s hands, too, and the doll was naked. 

“All right, let’s get you on the bed.” Owner pulled him to a standing position, and again, let go of him for just a moment. He bolted for the bathroom and almost made it. 

“Leave me alone, please, Owner, please,” he said over and over when Owner grabbed him and shoved him against a wall.

“As you said, I own you. I get to do what I want.” Owner gripped him by the hair and ushered him, wincing, to the bed. He put a knee on the doll’s groin, not pressing down but threatening to, and looped rope around the mass of tape and cloth, through the gap between the wrists, and knotted it to a loop stuck in the wall above the headboard. 

The doll started trying to kick, not for any practical reason but just to keep putting up a fight. Owner managed to bend each knee and tape each leg so that the legs stayed folded and spread. 

“You’re mean and horrible and I hate you,” the doll said.

“I’ve had enough of you mouthing off,” Owner replied. He pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket, wadded it up, and forced it into the doll’s mouth. He put a thin strio of tape across the doll's mouth to keep the ball in place, but didn’t completely close up the doll’s mouth. Just enough so he was quieter and couldn’t make many words. (There was an emergency word he could still make, but that was tucked in a backstage place, in a glass box on a wall in his mind, like a fire extinguisher.)

“There, now you’re much more the sweet and loving plaything I’m used to,” Owner said, kissing his doll’s forehead, corner of his mouth, his nose and chin and jaw and ears, even his eyelids when he closed his eyes for a moment. Suddenly Owner pinched both nipples very hard, fingernails too, for a long time. The doll gasped and tried to wriggle away.

Owner moved off his doll’s body and ran a finger along the doll’s cock, which was standing up. It felt nice when he did that, but he didn’t keep doing it. “I was going to be so generous to you. Instead, you need to face consequences for this behavior. But tell you what: I want to be sure you can’t get out of your bindings, and I need to be sure you’re really trying and not pretending in hopes of giving me the slip later. I’ll give you five minutes to free even one of your limbs. If you succeed, no punishment except for not getting to come tonight, which is very generous.”

The doll tried and tried. Owner undressed and settled down to watch. Every once in awhile he glanced at a clock the doll couldn’t see, because of angles. It was frustrating, yet the doll’s cock loved it. Bodies were strange.

***

There was a moment when Pierre’s phone rang, and it was a certain song that meant Chev was calling. Friedrich went and got the phone, took out the gag, and held it to Pierre’s ear.

“Hey, I hope I’m not interrupting something, sweet P.”  
“You kinda are, but this is more important. What’s up?”  
“Uh...do you want some canned lychee? Reinette suggested a little place near Eden Center for this evening, and it’d be easy to swing by the store you liked so much. Tell your Baron it was a time-sensitive call.”  
“Sure! I’ll pay you back. And I will. Anything else?”  
“Nah, I’ll talk to you later.”  
“Kay, goodb-”  
Then Friedrich dramatically snogged him (American English didn’t have an adequate substitute for that verb, in Pierre’s opinion). Had to take advantage of an interlude with Pierre’s mouth available.

***

After what felt like hours, Owner went to the big blue cooler full of drinks for good dolls who’d played well. The doll didn’t think that was the reason this time. No. He came back with a bucket of ice and some tongs.

The time had ended and the doll had failed. Owner put a piece of ice in the dip that had the doll’s navel at the bottom of it. At first it was just cold, but then it started to sting and burn. Owner tied his ankles to the frame under the bed so he’d stop moving his legs. Owner was careful and moved the ice after it had melted a bit, though. Putting ice in one place for too long was bad for dolls. 

There were a lot of places to move ice. The doll couldn’t fight anymore, or complain, except for soft sounds and shaking his head. Sometimes Owner would rub dry fingers on a cold, wet place, or run his hot tongue along the cold trail, to make it warm again. Owner talked to him. Sometimes Owner said a word that didn’t relate to the rest of the sentence, or made a strange movement, but that was normal for him. 

Then Owner stopped moving. Something was wrong with his face.

Pierre came back, in case he was needed. “Free-ih? Oo ok?”

Friedrich blinked and took a deep breath. “Yes. I just had deja vu. Want to go back to it?”

“Mm hm.”

Soon the doll couldn’t see Owner’s hands, but he heard the snap of a rubber glove and a squirting noise. He knew the next feeling very well. The Owner did just enough stretching so that he wouldn’t tear the doll’s insides, but not enough to make it comfortable.

Uncomfortable felt good sometimes, actually. 

The doll couldn’t do anything at all but be played with, so he was, and all the cold went away and it felt good, but he was reaching for something. He was reaching for something he couldn’t have because he’d been bad. 

Owner stopped using him, and went to put something in the trash. Then he lay down on the bed and kissed his doll in many places. He took the things out of the doll’s mouth. “My plaything’s been naughty and won’t get to come for a long long time.”

“I’m sorry,” the doll whispered.

“However, my Pierre’s been an absolute wonder, and would he like to come right now?”

“Yes! Green! Vert! Màu xanh lá! Lǜsè!” Pierre beamed. 

“Mouth or hands?”

“Whichever!”

Friedrich went with mouth, which he didn’t do often. Clearly it wasn’t because he was bad at it.

***

Sometime later, Pierre was curled up on the upstairs couch, eating seedless green grapes with Friedrich’s hand on his thigh. He was clean again, and in pajamas again. Glowy and floaty. Also he was reading more of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. 

Friedrich was on his laptop. Azor was on his feet. On, not at. “Francesco sent me a link to some viral video that’s been going around. Want to watch with me?”

“Maybe later, thanks.”

“Mind if I watch?”

“Go right ahead.”

It turned out to be not in English. Pierre idly half-listened.

Friedrich laughed, tapping his own nose twice. “You should see this. It’s in Hindi, I think. Some actors are filming…”

“A Bollywood film, and a guy falls off a wall, and he tells everyone he’s fine, and they roll action and he falls off again, and so does another actor? And then the prop wall collapses?”

“Oh, so you’ve seen it.”

It wasn’t until they were getting ready to sleep that Pierre realized he’d never seen such a video. He ran off to check real quick while Friedrich was in the bathroom. No, he’d never seen it. He’d heard Jemsa on the phone with his father a few days ago, and Jemsa was in parkour club, where he regularly fell off walls. Pierre must have subconsciously retained words from Jemsa’s anecdote to his father, right? Then filled in the gaps with logic?

That was a super normal thing to be able to do, right?

“Aren’t you having lunch with Ada tomorrow?” Friedrich called. “You should get some sleep. Feel free to scream in your sleep as long as you get some.”


	10. pretty little soldiers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you skipped the previous chapter, these elements from it are important, though it might not be clear why for a long time yet:
> 
> \- Pierre's ability to enjoy certain types of roleplay has changed because of what Chev went through, and the scene he does in that chapter is with Chev's explicit blessing and a lot of negotiation with Friedrich.
> 
> \- There was a moment where Friedrich faltered, but he recovered quickly. 
> 
> \- Pierre managed to understand what was going on in a viral video from just listening to it, despite it being in Hindi and him never having seen it. He decided that this must have to do with hearing Jemsa speak Hindi with his father days ago, and that it was unusual for him to have retained that much, but not super out-there.

Dinner with Shaka was a good distraction. Eventually, though, Chev had to go home. Their apartment was dark when they arrived.

They kicked off their shoes, not putting them away. They went to pee, wash hands and face, and brush their teeth with the bathroom door wide open. Jeanne wasn’t here, after all, and they didn’t want to be in a closed bathroom if they could help it. 

They didn’t close their bedroom door, either. They didn’t want any closed doors at all. They crawled into bed fully dressed and pulled the blankets over their head. In terms of accomplishing their objective, they’d been a tremendous success. Shaka had the contract and Chev was going to get a bonus on top of their modest trainee-stipend. 

In their mouth and chest, it didn’t feel like success. It felt like cold tiles and not having time to be afraid. Chev was embarrassed that a single bite had done so much to them. 

After an indeterminate amount of time, they heard Jeanne enter the apartment and nearly trip over their boots. “Oh my god, Chev, I’ve been understanding about you taking over half the hall closet with your additional clothing so you can have a wide spectrum. That doesn’t mean I’m chill with you leaving things in the middle of the foyer.”

Chev felt bad but didn’t have the energy to reply.

“Chev? Don’t tell me you did something ‘charmingly eccentric’ like climb out the window and damage the hinges. I wouldn’t put it past you.”

That wasn’t quite fair. Those hinges had already been rusty and needed replacing, and Chev had footed the bill. The apartment had only been drafty for two nights before Chev had time to get it fixed, and only one of them had been truly cold. The woman had clearly never slept in a bus shelter.

But what Jeanne found objectionable was their personality and actions. Not their gender, physical sex, or appearance. When Jeanne called them weird, it was for incidents like that time they'd warned her that they'd placed mousetraps in their bureau and desk drawers in case someone tried to root through their stuff. She never mocked what they were, only what they were like. That was a precious commodity. 

Pierre chalked up much of Chev’s behavior of this type as leftover coping mechanisms from roughly a decade of being a social outcast, their year homeless, and their five days handcuffed to a radiator. Some of it was. The rest was trying to build up their skill set for being an agent, maybe impress Shaka when the time came. Pierre didn’t know about the latter, of course, but Jeanne knew about none of it. She knew their current full legal name was Charles-Genevieve Beaumont d'Eon because of paperwork they'd both signed, and she knew it wasn’t the same as on their birth certificate, but she didn't know their driver's license said M.

There were things she knew that Pierre didn't, though. She continued, “I guess it’s silly of me to talk to you if you’re not here, but there was that time you hid in the cabinet under the sink to see how long it’d take someone to figure it out, then scared the crap out of me when I wanted something from under there...you’re like one of the modern TV Sherlocks, either of them, but I’m no Watson, got it?”

It occurred to Chev that Jeanne sounded a little drunk. Hey, it was Friday night, and she was teaching middle schoolers for the Education Major Practicum, plus a full course load of her own. Fair enough. 

“I should warn your boyfriend what you’re like to live with, but if he backs out, my own boyfriend is going to be disappointed and I’ll continue having to deal with you.” Her boyfriend would be returning from deployment by next September.

“This is another hide-and-seek, isn’t it? And, like, maybe there’s a booby trap I’ll stumble on if I don’t find you first and get you to tell me.” 

“I would never do that!” Chev shouted. 

Jeanne entered Chev’s room. “Wow, the lump isn't very effective in keeping you hid -” And peeled back the blanket. The rest of the sentence died in her throat.

Chev stayed curled up. Whatever. Let her complain or criticize.

After a pause, she said softly, “Did someone hurt you?”

For a few seconds, Chev considered lies they could tell her, but they were tired. “Not recently.”

“Something reminded you of when someone hurt you.”

“Yeah.”

After another pause, she asked, “Have you eaten?”

“Yeah.”

“Want half a mug brownie? Like, a teacup brownie? I was gonna make one anyway.”

“None of your teacups are microwave safe.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you’ve checked. Let me get my makeup off and sundry.”

It was more like a fudgy chocolate cake, but it was still neat that Jeanne could make a decent one inside a coffee mug with five ingredients and no measuring. She’d learned how to do it back when she lived in a dorm with no access to a real kitchen, and had persisted in making it as post-partying comfort food despite having an oven now. She put whipped cream on her own. Chev declined any. When she was done, she summoned them to the table and handed them a mug and a spoon.

“Thanks.”

“You’re gonna clean up for me.”

“Sure.”

“Any particular reason you didn’t call your boyfriend or BFF?”

Chev dug out their first spoonful. “He’s having a nice time right now. She’d end up being on the receiving end of a tirade about how a friend of hers really pisses me off sometimes.”

“Ah. Wanna hear about how much the new principal of the school where I’m assistant teaching hates the last two principals and everything they implemented, and all the drama it’s causing?”

“Sure.” Their personal trainer would probably tut disapprovingly at Chev eating this, but what the hell ever.

***

“The cake was no big deal, actually, when I 'fessed up," Chev told Dr. Suriyaren as they lounged crookedly on the couch in her secondary office. Her usual one was further north, but Mr. 15 facilitated her having somewhere closer for Chev’s sessions with her. It was a normal office rather than some soundproof bunker. The latter would draw more attention than the former. 

Dr. Suriyaren took pains to convince Chev that everything they talked about had the same confidentiality as anything any of her clients talked about. Neither Mr. 15 nor the police (except under the standard circumstances of about to hurt self or others, recent abuse of a minor, or a subpeona) had a right to what they said. Eventually she had, and it had been major solace to Chev ever since. 

“Good workout?” the therapist asked, smiling warmly. Her mode of dress was dainty and brightly colored, but it gave the impression of precision rather than fragility. Chev kind of wanted her reading glasses as regular glasses, if they ever needed glasses. The stems looked like they were covered in tiny jewels. 

“Yeah. I’m going to have to explain to Pierre why I’m having trouble moving tomorrow, probably, but it cleared my head. I’m more meta-bothered by the almond incident now. It was just one stupid bite.”

“From what you’ve said, it sounds like it was more than the bite. You were in front of dangerous strangers on a sensitive mission. You were also manipulated into the situation. That brings a lot of present-day stress to combine with the past-trauma stress.”

“I guess so.” They stared at a corner where two walls met the ceiling. 

“Hmm. Would you be interested in trying exposure therapy? It’s a common technique for phobias, and has a reasonably high success rate except when it comes to blood and needle phobias.”

“Why?”

“The physiological response to those are more intense. However, compared to many forms of exposure therapy, a taste-based trigger would be easy to carefully build up a tolerance to.”

Chev turned their head to look at her. “Like eating increasingly large amounts of almond-y foods?”

“The intensity of the flavor, too. It might take more repetitions than you could accomplish with me, but perhaps if you tried a certain amount here, and were sure that you could do so without choking, you could practice that same amount at home. You could also have someone you trust to help ground you in the present.”

“Maybe. I’ve read that, at least for people with certain genes, cyanide smells and tastes like almonds. Presumably it’s possible to eat a very small amount of cyanide without dying, at least not without reporting your findings first.” There were succulents in miniature pots on the coffee table. Chev liked succulents. Chev liked soft lighting and therapists who included throw blankets on their office couches. “I suppose to me, almonds taste like cyanide?”

“You’re still alive,” she pointed out, in a way that didn’t sound obvious.

They had a knitted hat bunched in their hands today. They’d worn it on the way here. Dr. Suriyaren hadn’t yet asked about it. She had no reason to think it was a new hat. “Yes. I am. You know what? I think I might trust Pierre to sit with me and hand me a lemon poppyseed muffin with, like, almond slivers on top.”

***

“ADA!”

“PIERRE!”

They might have drawn a lot of attention by their squeeing, but Pierre didn’t care. He’d been full of gratitude when Ada helped with rescuing Chev, and then he’d fallen in platonic love with her online since then. He abandoned his booth to run to her and hug her. 

“Ooh, it’s fun hugging someone in a corset,” he said, stepping back to admire it. Her chocolate brown underbust corset had the requisite brass buckles and snaps, and lots of pink ribbon. She’d piled her hair into an elegant twist, though some strands had fallen out, and she had a hat and brass goggles (of course) and a mysterious device on her belt and a skirt of reds and golds and pinks and royal blues and in general she looked delightful. 

“It is! Do you have a table already?”

Pierre led her to it. “Thanks for taking time to stop by on the way to your convention.”

“It’s not so much a convention as a get-together, but there are some people I wanna see enough to make it worth the drive. You’re also one of the people I wanna see.” She tried to wave down a server. “I also want a lemonade big enough to submerge a baseball, if it’s fresh-squeezed. Cravings, you know?”

“Sure you’re not pregnant?” Pierre teased. Then he facepalmed. “Oh no, I’m sorry, I forgot.”

Ada patted his other hand. “It’s okay. It took about three weeks for me to get fed up about people around me treating the words ‘uterine cancer’ the way people in Harry Potter treat the name ‘Voldemort’. Cabbage feels the same way about people who say ‘your unique qualities’, unless you’re talking about qualities like how he’s memorized all the major constellations and can draw them in their correct places without any references. That’s pretty unique.” 

Pierre knew Ada’s friend and partner-in-tech Charles Babbage was some unspecified degree of autistic, and that he was brilliant and hardworking and happily married to a woman Ada thought was a great match, but he hadn’t met him. “Maybe he could teach me. My dad grew up on a small French island, and when I go there to visit cousins I can see tons of stars at night.”

“He hates teaching people things.” She laughed at a memory that conjured up. 

Then a server came, though she regretted to inform Ada that baseball-submerging capability wasn’t a standard measurement. She was nice enough to estimate the approximate volume, though, and confirmed the fresh-squeezed element. 

The only thing keeping lunch from being perfect was that Pierre had a bad headache. Hopefully the bike ride home and the fresh air would supplement the Tylenol he took earlier. It had improved things a tiny bit on the way here.

“Sorry to give you the limited restaurant selection,” Pierre said at one point.

“No problem. I think a driving phobia, especially when you can’t always predict your own movements, is perfectly sensible. More sensible than arachnophobia, actually, in this modern age. A lot more people die from cars than spiders.”

They talked about common subjects like where they’d been working on recently - Ada was still refining a programming language she’d invented, apparently just for kicks - and less common subjects like how Tolkien came up with Elvish.

“He constructed the languages of Middle Earth way before he started writing Lord of the Rings,” Pierre said, gesturing with a curly fry. His brain was forcing him to gesture anyway, so he might as well look like he was doing it intentionally. “The very first one, which never showed up in the books except for in Unfinished Tales, was based completely on Celtic languages. Mostly Welsh grammar. Quenya and Sindarin, which he used a lot more and you hear in the movies, were inspired by a combination of Welsh, Old English, and Old Norse. Guess when he came up with his first one?”

“What was it called?”

“Gnomish.”

“I bet it was when he was fighting in World War I. When I was in treatment, I used to distract myself from the painful parts by coming up with command scripts in my head.”

Pierre nodded. “Circa 1915. It makes me think of this young guy huddled and frightened, all cold and wet, analyzing Welsh grammar as a way to stay sane.”

“Wow. I’ve heard my dad used to compose poetry at the top of his lungs when he was in a bad headspace. Help me with this rice pilaf. They gave me too much.” She took a long sip of her raspberry lemonade. She’d gotten one of those and one standard lemonade. Apparently she’d quit energy drinks as a New Year’s resolution, and to cut down on soda and coffee, too. Drinks made from smushing fruit were okay, even with added sugar, at least for now.

It was over all too soon, but Ada had places to be and Pierre thought he could use a nap. His headache wasn’t any better. 

“We’ll have to do this again soon,” he said when hugging her goodbye.

“Definitely. On a day when Chev’s free, too, maybe?”

“Yes. They regretted not being able to join us. Maybe I can convince them to drive us to Blacksburg.”

“Or any of your other friends or lovers. You know all the most fascinating people.” She tipped her hat at him. “I’m going on an adventure.”

***

Chev was just about to make their way to HQ when they got a phone call from Mr. 15. There was someone Chev was supposed to pick up on a specific street corner and bring with them. This person would wave a Beanie Babie at them to confirm their identity.

“Why a Beanie Baby, sir?” Chev asked.

“You’ll have to ask your passenger.” 

It was a black bear Beanie Baby, but that wasn’t the surprising thing. They leaned over and flung open the car door, and held in their shock until their passenger was safely inside and they’d started the car. 

_“Ada? Ada Goddamn Lovelace?”_

“I will also answer to ‘Ada Motherfuckin’ Lovelace’.” She fastened her seatbelt over her mysteriously steampunk getup. “Hi, Chev, or should I say Mx. Cavalier? Sorry for the inconvenience. Charles didn’t want to wait up, so he took my car and went ahead when I went to see Pierre. I’m Countess Bygone as of a few days ago. This is so exciting! Take me to our leader.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Jeanne-Louise-Henriette Campan served Louis XV (reader to his daughters), Marie Antoinette (lady-in-waiting), and impressively also Napoleon (she ran a school he’d set up for soldiers’ orphan daughters). In her memoirs, she referred to d’Eon as “that eccentric being” and “most disagreeable company”. She noted that d’Eon seemed frustrated to be forced to consistently present as female for the last few decades d’Eon’s life. 
> 
> \- Refresher: Sri Suriyaren was the pre-crowning name of a princess, later queen, of Siam who overlapped with Peter Stephen du Ponceau's lifetime. She did a good job navigating court intrigues. They were no joke, especially in a polygamous society when all the wives and all the potential heirs were jostling for power.
> 
> \- Refresher: Ada Lovelace, a countess who invented computer programming, was close friends with Charles Babbage, a polymath who invented computer engineering. Among other things, he was also an astronomer and a math professor who got away with never teaching a single class. However, their joint project was unfinished, partly because Lovelace died of uterine cancer. A recent completion of their proto-computer based on notes and using materials available at the time show that both Babbage and Lovelace's concepts would have worked. When I have time, I will definitely read "The Thrilling Adventures of Lovelace and Babbage", in which they finish their invention and fight crime. 
> 
> \- Refresher: Lovelace's father, "mad, bad, dangerous to know" poet Lord Byron, was extremely likely to have been bipolar and definitely had an eating disorder. He was indisputably reliable with the ladies (and gents). Among Byron's hijinks were keeping a pet bear cub at college because they wouldn't let him keep a dog, and apparently they were helpless to stop him from abusing the loophole.
> 
> \- You may or may not know: J.R.R. Tolkien was a professor of philology (linguistics) at Oxford, and all his writings were a secondary hobby to his language-construction hobby. Also he thought everyone should learn Esperanto, and he did. He compared learning words in a new language to the joy of eating sweets. 
> 
> His close friend C.S. Lewis created a character based on him for his Out of the Silent Planet series, who saves the day through the power of linguistics. Tolkien himself was flattered, but believed it was morally wrong for laymen to comment on spiritual matters or write with deliberate religious allegory. C.S. Lewis was seemingly incapable of writing without them. Yes, Tolkien believed Narnia was a morally wrong series. Meanwhile Lewis expressed being really sick of Tolkien reading aloud passages about Elves during Inklings Club meetings. 
> 
> Sorry to go on a tangent. I have many feelings about their friendship.


	11. well, you're working for the man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> psst even if my replies to comments are haphazard or never actually happen, I love them and they are among my favorite things in my everyday existence and I love youuuu

Chev had just under an hour to talk to Ada alone before they reached HQ. They knew the way well by this point. They could focus on talking to her.

“Any particular reason you’re dressed like that?” It wasn’t the most pressing question, but they needed a moment to process their surprise, with an underlying streak of rage. Friedrich had solemnly promised that nobody would hear about Ada’s involvement in Chev’s rescue. Mr. 15 should not have found about Ada. Friedrich should not have caught her up in this. 

Ada looked around at the scenery, her entire body speaking of delight. “My cover story to Pierre, and in general, is that there’s a steampunk get-together in DC today. Which there is. I let him assume I’m going to it. Also hey, I get to dress this way today.”

“It suits you.” Chev felt a twinge about how many people Pierre knew who frequently lied to him.

“Thanks! I've got such a weakness for the aesthetic, especially. Cabbage - only I call him that, by the way, you should call him Charles - made a laptop case for me out of repurposed dark walnut panels, with brass snaps to close it, and my name carved into the wood. Also it's water and shockproof, somehow. I wish he hadn't hit it with a hammer while my laptop was inside as a demonstration - before telling me what he was demonstrating - but the cumulative thoughtfulness comes out positive. His wife Georgiana’s not jealous of our friendship, but I think she’s a teensy bit jealous of the case. He doesn't have enough money for the materials to make another one." 

"Did he make that gadget strapped to your belt?"

"I'll let him do the show-and-tell." She looked at them for a moment. "You're more freaked out than I expected, though I did expect some."

"How'd Mr. 15 get ahold of you?"

"He didn't. I got ahold of him."

Chev was glad they knew the route well, otherwise they would have just made a wrong turn. " _You_ got ahold of _him_."

"When we got you to safety, I wanted to be sure your kidnappers got locked up, so I kept an eye on proceedings. I noticed some unusual circumstances involved with both Pontiere's confession and a meltdown Guerchy had shortly after a representative from the French Embassy came to meet him, so I did a bit of digging. Had to be certain you stayed safe after all our hard work. Went down a bit of a rabbit hole. The Agency's good at keeping its records and internal communications offline, but not all of the agents are as vigilant as they should be when it comes to their own data. Plus it needs clients, right? There's a Deep Web site it took me a few days to reach, since I didn't know all the codes and passwords, and magic gestures or whatever, to start with. All the agents are by codename with no photos or personal data, and you're not there at all yet, by the way."

"You told him you'd found all this?" Chev knew the Agency didn’t do premeditated killing, but the French Numbers very much did. They were impressed and grateful that Mr. 15 had stuck with one modus operandi and not the other.

“I told him that he could use someone to keep better track of all these agents when they're not on duty, because it looked like a few of them are more sketchy than others. If one of them commits a massacre on his or her own time, or working for someone else, even if it’s not sanctioned by Mr. 15, it’s going to be a big problem, you know? I mean, in addition to it being a problem in terms of people getting hurt. I figure it’s in the public interest to keep everyone on script. If you can’t beat ‘em, monitor ‘em.” She took off her hat and placed it in her lap. “After he got over whatever heart palpitations he went through, we hashed out a part-time position for me. I’ll also improve the security while I’m at it. He offered to have me become one of the agents whose services are offered to clients, but that’s further out into deep water than I want to swim. I would be really sparing about what I told him about you, by the way, Chev, because you're a friend. I'll give you tips for avoiding notice from other people, as well.”

Chev had another reason to never want Ada to consider them an enemy. “Thank you. That means a lot. What about Charles?”

“I asked if Mr. 15 might be interested in some of the things Charles has made, and some of the things he wants to make and has simulated but doesn’t have the materials for. Nothing Charles does is meant to hurt or kill someone, but yeah, Mr. 15 was interested when I described them. I asked Charles if he wanted to work with people who’d appreciate his creations without making him have to be in an office or be on a team or change how he behaves.”

“I understand that last part,” Chev said. 

Ada looked at them again, this time with empathy rather than concern. “Exactly. He said yes, very much. I told him this would involve crime and not being allowed to tell Georgiana until he’d been a member long enough and successfully filed the paperwork. He asked what kind of crime. I told him. He asked if he would have to participate in the crime personally. I said no. He said, ‘Worth it, then.’ He's not amoral, but, he's...he's been cramped for much of his life, and to stretch out a bit, get the right kind of challenge...”

"I really understand that." The knot of anger and worry in Chev’s chest unwound. They added, more playfully, “I have to warn you, HQ has its charms, but isn’t much for grandeur. It’s the focal point for a network of freelancers and contractors who only ever show up one or two at a time, and it needs to blend in.”

“It’s like crime in the cloud, yeah, I know. Smart.”

“If we get to go into Mr. 15’s private office, though, it’s pimped out. All the decor’s shipped from what I assume were his palatial surroundings in France before he decided there was too much tension brewing within his syndicate, and also that it wasn’t fun anymore.” Or so Friedrich had said, while advising Chev to ask Fritz for details if they wanted them. Fritz hadn’t gotten back to them yet about the meeting they’d agreed do. They knew Fritz was dealing with family business right now, and could wait. “Mr. 15 is cagey about anything he wants you to do unless you pry it out of him, by the way.”

“Oh?”

“There’s a scene in Welcome to Night Vale where a supervisor from a Vague Yet Menacing Agency is lecturing her employees, and she says something like, ‘We put [spoiler] in crates. We move the crates to our various locations in the desert. And thus, our interests are furthered.’ That’s what his briefings sound like. I have to rely on Madame Persuasive for clarification.”

Ada laughed. “People learn pretty quickly how important it is to give me well-defined parameters.” She laughed again, but this time it was more of a cackle.

***

HQ was in a small office building adjacent to a few other small office buildings, a dollar store, and a supermarket. The Agency had donated the two aboveground floors to an accounting firm, and provided them with additional income to help maintain the fiction that the building was harmless accountants all the way up and down, and that there was only one basement, full of cleaning supplies and a boiler and whatnot. Also, some of those accountants were fantastic at shuffling money around, and appreciate the reliable patronage from their “landlord”. Reinette called it “money lamination”: making sure all the money stayed flexible and easy to wipe clean. Her nickname for their aboveground brethren was "the Fresh Numbers".

In fact, there were three sub-basements. The first one had a hidden entrance directly from the outside, good for emergencies as well as for those who seriously needed secrecy. When possible, it was better to walk in the normal door, wave at the nice, wholesome accountants, and casually make your way to the special staircase.

“The head janitor quite likes that we keeps the entrance in here, as long as we put the equipment back,” Chev explained as they turned on their keychain flashlight to navigate through the cluttered closet to the correct panel. “Says it’s convenient. Same cleaning staff for the whole building, so we don’t have to worry about well-meaning janitors finding places they shouldn’t.”

Ada made sure the door was locked properly behind them. “Be honest: how often do you pretend you’re going to Narnia?”

“Almost every time.” Chev helped guide Ada, and also compensate for her stunning but impractical clothes. Her skirt got caught a few times. “Hold the flashlight for me, please. I’m sure you’ll be told the combination in a more systematic way, but the important thing to know is that the numbers have been repainted in the wrong places. See, this says 5, but it’s really 1.4.”

“That is diabolical!” 

Apparently Friedrich had been the one who originally came up with that, along with many of the other clever tactics used here. Chev wondered how he felt about all he'd contributed now that he’d separated himself from the Agency. Friedrich was loud about everything except himself. “There’s a narrow little elevator, too, and you have to press a sequence that is in Braille but also color-coded. To get in, to make it work, and also to get out again. Bit of a hassle. We only use it if someone can’t walk or we need to transport heavy objects.”

“You mentioned the Agency taking up three levels. I was told to report to ‘the deepest level’.”

“Right. The first one has a few subtle skylights, to let a bit of sun in. The building’s on a slope, you see. Gimme a sec.” Reinette could open this lock while barely looking at it, chatting all the while, but Chev still needed to focus. Eventually they opened it and stepped through the door.

Ada turned off the flashlight and handed Chev their keychain back. “Do the contents of the rooms and the activities that take place in them get more illicit as you go down?”

“Yep. Careful, steps are narrow. As I was saying, first sub-basement has a break room with a microwave, sink, coffee maker, fridge, water cooler, table. There’s a sort of lobby/sitting room adjacent to it, plus a small conference room for clients who don’t warrant going further down. We’re going to keep going on the staircase, but I’m sure you’ll see it soon. There are two hotel-style rooms off to the side, as well, for when it’s more practical for someone to stay over. The idea is that if the cops found the ground entrance and found that floor, we could plausibly argue that the senior accountants use it but keep it a secret from the junior ones. Our friends upstairs would corroborate this.” They tapped another locked door, to their right, but kept walking until a locked door in front of them blocked their progress. Chev fiddled with another combination to proceed further down the dimly lit spiral staircase.

“What’s the plan for if you’re on the lower two levels and there’s a fire?”

“Fire extinguishers, oxygen tanks, and more axes than I think are strictly necessary. King Leonine likes axes.” Chev hoped Shaka had been the one to come up with his own codename, though to be fair, the first verse ‘The Circle of Life’ was indeed in Zulu. 

“I bet Charles could design a more efficient system for you, if asked.” Ada pointed at the second door. “So, what’s here?”

“There’s a library full of hard copies of everything that has been relevant so far to working for this agency. I spend a lot of time there on my Saturdays now. I get written and oral tests on various subjects. That’s what I thought I was going to be doing here today. There’s also a shower and a mini exercise room with basic equipment. That’s really for if someone gets stir crazy. Real physical training is done offsite. It’s less incriminating if somehow law enforcement got down here, too. 

“And probably easier logistically.” 

“That as well. The third down has all the computers and tech, the main conference room, and all the admin offices. We don’t have many. Only Madame Persuasive and Mr. 15 get their own offices.” It also had the hotel room that looked much like the ones on the first level, though with a few key items removed, and with a door that locked from the outside. It was almost always for agents who Mr. 15 wasn’t done yelling at yet, more of an advanced time-out corner. Chev hadn’t been allowed to know about that immediately upon hire, so they didn’t volunteer the information.

Turns out they didn’t need to. As Chev and Ada exited the staircase, Miss Plenty nudged Chev aside. She had a tray of food and a bottle of water, and was heading right for the room in question. “Nice to see you, Cavalier, but I need to feed Casey.”

Chev raised an eyebrow. “You’re calling him Casey now?” Peg Plunkett, who did much of the agent and client wrangling, was generally pretty strict about keeping to codenames. (Chev, as a rare trainee-from-scratch, was sufficiently unusual to be handled by the boss and his right-hand-woman instead.) On the other hand, her best friend and fellow Admin Sally Hayes so was uninterested in codenames that Chev didn’t know what hers was. Sally focused on the internal, day-to-day necessities of running the Agency, especially the boring things like dealing with termites l and whether it was feasible to get the plumbing fixed without compromising security. The stuff Chev never thought about secret agencies dealing with.

Francois de Broglie, aka “Marquis Unruffled”, was the remaining member of Admin, who had followed Mr. 15 from the French Numbers and specialized in dealing with law enforcement and tidying up loose ends. He was often away from the office and in the field. 

Miss Plenty blushed. “There’s just a certain way he smiles…”

Chev wondered if they’d be susceptible to Casey Nova once they met. Unlikely, given how they felt about revealing their body to anyone, though Pierre wouldn't mind. "Of course. Ask him on a date after he’s allowed to leave, maybe?”

“There’s a thought. See you around.” She went on her way.

Ada watched her disappear down the hall. “Um?”

Then, thankfully, Reinette was there to gladly greet Ada, thank her for helping Chev, and give her a hug. “It’s wonderful to meet you in person, it really is. Don’t take too much of Mr. 15’s mood to heart. I think he’s intimidated by you. Don’t tell him I said that. Also Charles has been going on and on about an algorithm he's written to improve the Fresh Numbers' effectiveness at money lamination. Also he had to pause in dealing with Casey in order to receive Charles in his office, and I think he wants to get Casey out of his hair and his mind and his building as soon as possible.”

“About that…” Ada toyed with the goggles on her hat, which she had started carrying instead of wearing partway down the stares.

“All will be made clear. Or as much as it ever is around here.” Reinette beckoned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While looking for other members of Secret du Roi to populate this fic, I learned that the Marquis du Ruffec organized the dinner party at which the young Marquis de Lafayette ended up meeting people who made him decide to support the American Revolution. I also learned that I couldn't use another member because he was Adrienne's grandfather. This shows what happens when you disregard historical timelines and mash up everyone from a century's worth of history, lol. But that just shows yet again how much Adrienne and Lafayette were meant to be!
> 
> Peg Plunkett (no relation to the highwayman) and Sally Hayes ran a successful Dublin brothel. Peg testified against an all-male gang that was mugging and terrorizing prostitutes, and won. 
> 
> The Welcome to Night Vale episode Chev paraphrases from is one of my favorites, can be listened to on its own, and [can be found on the official channel for free here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LtNzSN925JA) That episode is where I first heard the song that gave the title to this fic.


	12. child in the mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter I'll take us back to HQ and Mr. 15's throne room, but I had limited time today and I really wanted to check in with Pierre. Especially since I read more of du Ponceau's autobiography and HAD to do something with it as soon as I could. The main anecdote that made me so enthusiastic is at the very end of the End Notes.

Pierre had slept well last night, and was told he’d only cried out softly a few times before settling down again. Friedrich joked that, in cooperation with Chev, there could be a parallel experiment to see if Pierre being thoroughly fucked-out and wrapped up warmly would reduce the night terrors. Pierre snarked back that studies should be done by impartial observers. 

He took a nap today anyway. He hadn’t completely meant to. He’d been lying in quiet darkness, hoping his headache would leave him and he could get started looking up sources for his proposed paper on legalese and how it affects communication within the justice system.

He woke to the sound of his phone, and reached for it. 

_“Mon petit canard?”_

“I’m not a duckling, _Maman_.” Pierre said in English. “I’m twenty.”

_“Mon canard?”_

Pierre’s family had lived in France for the first seven years of his life, and they never got out of the habit of speaking it at home. Pierre code-switched back and forth with English a lot, though, and he and his mother sprinkled random Vietnamese words when his father wasn’t part of the conversation. He settled into almost all French for the rest of the phone call. 

“That’s better.”

She let out a laugh. “I am so sorry. Your papa’s going to call you tomorrow, alright?”

“Can’t he just join us on video chat?” The routine was to Skype on Sundays, all three of them, with his father joining in from wherever he was if he happened to be away on business.

“We’re having....logistical issues. It’s a temporary measure.”

He didn’t quite like how she sounded there. “Are you okay?”

“Absolutely. I just want to talk to you. How are classes?”

“Great. I got an A on morphology quiz. It was fun. There were lists of words from lesser-known languages with a handful of meanings given, and you had to extrapolate based on your knowledge of how words work and define the rest of the words. Isn’t that neat?”

“That’s lovely. Wait. You’re not ticcing.”

“No. Um, new medication.” It wasn't a lie.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

Pierre fumbled for his bottle of water, designed so he could drink from it while lying down. This was useful in many situations. “Didn’t want to worry you.”

“You know how I feel about you keeping things from me because you don’t want to worry me.”

“Grateful?”

She made a dissatisfied sound. “You said you’d stop doing that.”

“Sorry.”

“You sound good, though. Your _Bà ngoại_ and _Ông ngoại_ are going to renew their insistence that you should be a lawyer and not a linguist if you can speak well now.”

“Aw crap, maybe I should go back to the old meds,” he joked. His maternal grandparents were loving but a teensy bit pressuring, convinced that all offspring should be in certain high-earning and/or high-honor professions to be considered successful. The exceptions were that girls could get away with becoming stay-at-home caretakers of children and elderly loved ones, and because his mother’s family were Buddhist, boys growing up to be monks fit the "high honor". Pierre was an odd one out anyway for being half white, so they let it go with only slight nudging, and shrugged at the queer thing. (“This is what happens when you marry Frenchmen,” he’d overheard his grandfather saying to his daughter once, resigned.)

She sounded cautiously joyful. “Still physical ones?”

“Yeah. Mild and infrequent, but very unpredictable. Papa is still not to get on my case about getting a driver’s license.” Friedrich could drive without any trouble, but the thought of getting involved in that whole realm of existence when his motor skills (haha) weren’t always all his own terrified Pierre beyond his ability to fully describe. Besides, it was one of the few phobias where you would invariably be putting other people at risk if you had a panic attack during.

“Perhaps you will find work in Paris one day and never need drive, and I will come visit you and not have to stay in hotels.”

“You’re so selfless. How are you?”

“Fine. What do you want to do for your birthday?”

“First: That’s a suspiciously short answer. Second: My birthday isn’t for months. Three: I figured it would be same as every year. Picnic on the beach at Île de Ré, with the aunts and uncles and cousins who still live there.” His father had gotten tired of the Isle of Ré as a young man and left to seek his fortune, but it was a lovely place to spend a few days in June. 

“I thought we could do something different this year, if you felt like it. Would you like to go to Nice? We’ve never been to Nice.”

“Maman, you’re acting strange.”

“I’m sorry. I miss you. I was just getting used to having you around again.”

“It’s not that long until Spring Break.”

“Mm, we could go to Oregon. I could do with some big trees.”

“The tallest trees in the world are only a few hours’ drive from your house.” Funny how he’d started thinking of that house as his parents’ and not his. He wasn’t sure when that happened.

“I could do with some different, yet also enormous, trees.”

“Maybe you need glasses. I think I might need glasses. I got a free eye exam as part of...a program, and they said I’m nearsighted.” The Neuralizine researches had given him a thorough physical to establish a baseline during a visit before the first injection. He’d texted Martha Laurens, and she said she hadn’t known she needed glasses until an eye exam. Then it was like she had superpowered vision, for a few weeks, until she got used to it. He hadn’t discussed it with anyone else yet.

“Then get them. I’m sure you’ll look adorable.”

“Stop iiiiiiit.”

“I’ll stop bothering you. If nothing special happens I’ll call you next week, but you can call me whenever you want, _em ơi._ ” His mother rarely called him that, though _her_ mother called him that to the point where he sometimes wondered if she remembered what his name was.

“Love you,” Pierre said, and he ended the call. Odd. She normally wanted to talk longer. Just as well, though. He had a lot to do if he wanted to be fully available to Chev tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Did my best with translations. Please let me know about any language errors you see.
> 
> \- I had no historical reason for Pierre's parents to be mainly based in San Francisco. I wanted them to be in the U.S., but far enough away to explain why they didn't come to visit him in Sharps Hour. There's a major Asian presence (heavily Chinese, but not all) and I also thought that if he'd mostly grown up in a famously gay-friendly city, it would make sense regarding how relaxed he is about letting everyone know his orientations. 
> 
> \- Du Ponceau was from the Isle of Ré, but I decided my Pierre's parents would have been far more likely to meet in a large city, so I gave his dad the "I'm so tired of this provincial life (and also my coworkers are bullying me)" origin story instead of him. A cool thing about Du Ponceau having been from there was that he grew up surrounded by many British merchants and sailors, so as a child he wandered around and soaked up fluent English from them. He later believed this was the hand of Providence making him a valuable asset to Baron von Steuben, taking him away and saving him from getting killed in the French Revolution. (Also he taught himself Italian and Latin, and was punished at the age of six for correcting the teacher's Latin.)
> 
> \- Philology, as it was called at the time, wasn't really something you could make a living out of (him winning a big cash prize from a university in Paris for his work notwithstanding), so Du Ponceau spent most of his life earning money as a secretary, lawyer, or judge. His autobio has some insightful thoughts on how early American diplomacy was affected by almost all of the first wave of diplomats being lawyers by trade. 
> 
> ** Okay. Okay. This was the main story that made me need to write a reference to so I had an excuse to share: du Ponceau needed spectacles for nearsightedness but didn't get them until he was middle-aged. There was an incident where the Baron ordered him to ride out and check on some Continental soldiers who were doing practice maneuvers. He rode back reporting that he saw Redcoats on the horizon. Then it turned out he'd seen a bunch of distant red pieces of clothing hung on a washing line. Fortunately everyone found this so hilarious - including Washington - that nobody was angry at him. He didn't mention the exact date and location, but if this was during the time when he was in the same camp as the Gay Trio, that'd make the story even better. **


	13. name me your plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mention of institutionalized homophobia, transphobia, and discrimination based on those things. There's also references to past painful, but not deliberately hateful, parent-child relationships.

Lafayette had emailed a bunch to interior photos of his ancestral château when he learned Chev was going to be working in France this summer, as if Chev needed enticement to visit. Mr. 15’s office looked like if you crammed all of them into one room. Chev wondered if anyone had been forced into indentured servitude because they knocked over a vase. Charles might have been wondering something similar, given how tightly he was sitting in one of the carved wood chairs arranged around the massive stained mahogany desk. 

The man himself was not there. Reinette said he was locating Louise so she could make him a liqueur coffee, which was of course so very much more efficient than learning how to make it himself. Louise’s job around here, according to Reinette, seemed to be whatever stereotypical PA-like tasks were below Reinette’s pay grade.

“Mind the chandelier,” Ada joked, gesturing at the monstrosity swinging from the low ceiling. “Your heels are pretty high today.”

“Madwoman,” Charles mumbled. He was also hugging a beautiful wooden laptop case to his chest. 

“Mad, bad, and dangerous to know,” she agreed, taking a seat next to him. “How’ve you been?”

He relaxed a fraction. “I was doing well when I was talking about my interests, and then Reinette left to talk to you and I was alone with Mr. 15 who makes me nervous, except you’re here so that has brought my level of okay-ness closer to baseline. Also there were kids on skateboards on the way here. And I saw street musicians.”

Reinette took a seat on Mr. 15’s side of the desk, and Chev took the standard employee-about-to-be-briefed-or-debriefed seat. “Is there a particular reason you don’t like those two things?”

“Skateboarders sometimes go into the street and cause accidents. Street musicians cause loud music when you don’t expect it. It’s not like in stores, where you expect it. It's still loud and disruptive, but not surprising. Why are you smiling, Chev? You’re Chev, right? I should call you they and them in third person.”

Chev schooled their facial expression. “Yes, that’s correct. Sorry, I was a street musician for awhile.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Just when I was homeless, though.”

Charles nodded. “Then it wasn’t your fault.”

Mr. 15 returned with a steaming cup and saucer in hand, with Louise trailing after him with a selection of drinks. Chev had never talked to her long enough to form any impression of her other than “beautiful in a classically pale and soft Rubenesque sort of way” and “pleasant, except for being passive-aggressive towards Reinette”. The latter of which being the main reason they’d never talked to her much. Reinette was a wonderful woman who could be extremely sharp and cold when crossed. It was one of the reasons they got along so well with her.

Everyone except Reinette took a drink from the tray. Louise’s gaze slid right past her. Only someone who was carefully watching Mr. 15’s face would have noticed his tiny sigh and eyeroll. 

Mr. 15 waved Louise out and settled into his chair. “Mr. Babbage has now signed a contract, and will be henceforth known as Professor Analytical. Countess Bygone’s codename is already settled. Countess, I have paperwork for you to look over shortly.” Mr. 15 consistently used codenames, but he inconsistently shortened them. Chev suspected that he called them ‘Cavalier’ instead of ‘Mx.’ because ‘Mx.’ was so unfamiliar to him, and might easily be misheard.

Reinette held up a folder, then put it back down on the desk. 

“First off, though, neither of you are familiar with the key aspects of how this all works, right? Only what the Countess has gleaned from our advertisements to clients.”

“Plus emails someone called Count Lascivious has been sending to someone called Señorita Prime, who he also keeps calling ‘my darling Prima Donna’. It was fascinating. Um. Sir. Do I say sir?”

“It’s customary,” Reinette said, almost maternally.

Mr. 15 took a long drink of his coffee, which considering that it had a shot mixed in was pretty telling. “Persuasive, make a note for me to follow up on this.”

“Yes, sir.” She uncapped her pen and started writing in a notebook. 

“I could share some tips with them,” Ada said.

“We’ll talk about that later. Thank you. As I was saying, I think it would be a good test of Cavalier’s understanding to have them be the one who explains it to you.” He swiveled around in a very Bond-villain way to stare at Chev.

“Yes, sir.” Chev took a fortifying sip of orange juice. “Are you familiar with the merit badges that Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts have? Where you accomplish different things, and you get to sew a badge to that effect on your sash?” 

“Scouts are a menace to society,” Charles said matter-of-factly.

Ada said, “With your luck, Chev was a scout.”

“I was two scouts, in a way.” Chev had been in Cub Scouts in elementary school, when they were perceived as a cis boy, and experimented with Girl Scouts in their early teens, when they were not. Girl Scouts started allowing trans girls around the time Chev started looking increasingly femme. The Boy Scouts were still stubbornly bigoted. Now they could both tie knots and sell cookies like hell. 

“What…” Now Charles had a puzzle to think about, and he relaxed even more. Yes, Chev had riddled him right.

Chev continued, “So when someone gets recruited as an active agent, as opposed to internal contractors like you two, there’s a bunch of tests that you can do in all these different areas to certify that you are an expert at a given spy-type thing. Because of the circumstances of my recruitment, I was automatically given a ‘badge’, or what we call a qualification, in Adaptability. Most agents already have some of the skills and learn others on their own, or pay to learn them, but Mr. 15’s taken me on as a sort of scholarship student. Ones I’m aiming for include Unarmed Nonlethal Combat, Armed Nonlethal Combat, Infiltration, Disguise, Data Collection, Escapology, and Knowledge of Law Enforcement.”

“I saw some of those on the site,” Ada said. “With stars for being extra good at things. Count Lascivious had stars around Seduction. There were unusual ones too, like horseback riding and, like, sword swallowing.”

“Yes, the idea is that people in the right circles who are looking for someone to do something will pick someone out from the roster and contact the Agency. They only know the codename, pronouns, and qualifications at this point. They describe the job to Admin, without necessarily having to reveal who they are. Admin relay this to the agent. If the agent might be interested in the job but only if they know who it’s with, Admin will give the potential employer the choice whether or not to reveal who they are pre-contract. If the agent doesn’t care, they skip to the next step, where the agent agrees, and then everyone learns everyone’s identities and starts working out the details. Half the money must be sent to the agency up front. After the assignment is completed, the clients must sent the other half or risk...stuff. Agent gets a cut and Agency gets a cut. There aren’t many agents in play, but they bring in a lot of money per job.”

Reinette said they might get another agent/client wrangler on the payroll sometime soon, as Miss Plenty said she was close to her limit, but no need to bring that in. Especially since Chev wasn’t certain they were supposed to know that. 

“Is there a minimum number of jobs you have to take?” Ada asked.

“If you’re a full-time employee, yes, because being a full-time employee means you get a stipend to tide you over between jobs. Well, not number of jobs, but amount of profit. If you’re a contractor, take as many or as few as you want. Because the Agency is paying for my training, along with a trainee stipend, they will be taking a larger chunk than the standard out of all my payouts until my predetermined debt has been paid off.” Chev was grateful to Reinette for making sure that Chev’s debt was specified in the contract, so that Mr. 15 couldn’t keep adding onto it and claiming Chev owed more than they really did. 

“Sometimes field agents will get a specific assignment offer from the Agency itself, the way purely internal ones do,” Reinette added. 

Mr. 15 swiveled back to his original angle. “That will do, Cavalier. Now I was promised a demonstration of a waterproof and shockproof laptop case, lightweight and inexpensive night vision goggles, and what was described as ‘like a Geiger counter, but for covert listening devices and hidden cameras.’”

Charles placed the laptop case on the desk. “I swapped out my laptop for yours, Ada,” he said.

“Thank you.” She took the steampunk-looking goggles off her hat and the mysterious gizmo off her belt and also placed them on the desk.

Mr. 15 smiled for the first time in the meeting. “Shall we give them a try?”

***

Shaka ended up being the one formally debriefing Chev about their meeting with Ching Shih. Mr. 15 and Reinette were busy handling their newest recruits, who were definitely going to be here late enough to sleep in the hotel rooms on the first sublevel before driving home in the morning. Miss Plenty was just as busy. 

Shaka didn’t have his own office at HQ, because of space and also because he had his own domain about twenty minutes’ drive away, but he shared an office with Marquis Unruffled. Most of the time, including today, Unruffled wasn’t at HQ anyway.

When Chev finished, Shaka cracked his knuckles thoughtfully. “I saw you were subdued after. You can call Mr. 15 names if you want, I won’t report you. It’s alright to be angry. Unlike fear, anger can be made productive, and unlike hate, anger can be made rational. It doesn’t have to lead to any sort of dark side. It can lead to fixing whatever made you angry.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Your therapist has suggested exposure therapy. Good. Do that. I have another idea to pursue as well. You know that for some people, at least, cyanide tastes like bitter almonds. It can also smell like it, but only for people with the gene. It’s not a common gene. I believe you have it. Why? Because when you were captive you were not fed something purely almond flavored. It was vanilla almond. You said you’ve had no trouble with vanilla.”

“But I’ve eaten vanilla all the time all my life. Not so much almond. Also, there’s a difference between bitter almonds, sweet almonds, and artificial almond flavoring.”

“True. There are, however, similarities.” Shaka leaned in. “I’ll put a request in for you to come to my little satellite base, and we’ll test if we can do something with that hypersensitivity of yours. Put it towards a nice toxicology qualification to add to your toolbox. In time we can also talk about arsenic and methanol and amanita and all those other useful things. Strychnine produces interesting visuals but is highly impractical.”

Chev crossed their arms in front of them. “What happened to nonlethal training?”

“Did I say anything about you being the one poisoning people? Don’t come crying to me if someone poisons you, or a client who hired you for protection, or a contact you were meant to talk to. Or, moreover, if someone tries to frame you for murder by poison.”

“I get the idea. Okay, if you can make it count towards training hours.”

“Excellent. I won’t poison you in the process. Promise.”

***

Chev put in two hours of reading up on the Meiji crime syndicate before receiving Mr. 15’s blessing to go home. They couldn’t take any of the materials in that library away from HQ, but they wished they could. It’d be great to be all snuggled up in bed while learning the significance between a Japanese gangster with no left pinkie versus one with all his fingers - but three of them missing their first joints.

They’d just gotten home and were thinking about what to do about dinner when they got a phone call. 

“Hi, Mom,” they said. They opened the fridge to stare in it. Most of the food was Jeanne’s, and labeled as such with post-it notes. They should cook for her sometime soon. They were a great cook when motivated to, which wasn’t often, and she was always more mellow towards them for a few days after.

“Hi, Chev. You sound tired. You had work today, right?”

“Right. I also went to the gym.”

“That’s good. Just don’t wear yourself out.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“How’ve you been?”

“Okay. Pierre and I went to a charity bowling tournament to help a friend of his who has cancer.”

“Good. That’s a good activity.”

“Yeah.”

There was a pause. “Spur of the moment, but thought I’d let you know: your dad and I are going to drive down to North Carolina next weekend, since it’s a three-day weekend. Outer banks marshes? Wright Brothers museum? Gem mine? You and I amusing each other while Dad knocks himself out at the Nascar Hall of Fame?”

Chev took out an apple to eat while thinking about what else to eat. It was hard for them to decide what to eat on an empty stomach. One of life’s little tragedies. “I appreciate you inviting me to family togetherness, I do. I’ve still got work on Saturday.”

“You can’t skip out? I’m sure that’s common.”

“I seriously can’t. My boss might lock me in a cell.” They wondered if Casey was still in there. It was a nice room, but it was still a cell.

(Though, to be fair, Mr. 15 had expressed willingness to count traumatic flashbacks as qualifying for sick leave if Chev could get a note from Dr. Suriyaren. Lots of employers wouldn’t.)

“You’re so dramatic,” she said fondly. “That’s a shame, but all right. Some other time, maybe.”

“Mom, and I am putting this as nicely as I can, you’ve forgotten that North Carolina is a really bad state for me. North Carolina is where I can’t go to public bathrooms, and before you say ‘yes you can, if you just...’, I don’t want to hear the ‘if you just’. I do not like the ‘if you just’. I deal with that kind of ‘if you just’ enough without choosing to experience more. North Carolina is also where it is legal to deny me service if my existence offends a business owner’s delicate religious sensibilities. I won’t be Charlie or Charlotte just to accommodate that kind of bullshit. I’m done with that.” They realized they were breaking arrhythmically. 

She sounded aghast. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I really did forget. I did.”

“That’s a difference between your life and mine,” Chev said, and their tone was crueller than they’d consciously meant it to be. 

“I’m sorry. Maybe...maybe Pennsylvania, sometime?”

She was trying, and they were listening, and that meant they’d all come a long way. “Sure. Pennsylvania sometime sounds great.”

Then their phone started ringing for another call. From Pierre. Chev made an educated guess what about. “Hey Mom? This isn’t because of negative emotion, but because I’ve been invited to dinner and I’m late, okay?”

“Okay. Be sure to eat lots, Chev. You’ve lost so much weight since, um, since the beginning of November.”

“Yes, Mom.” They hung up before she could say ‘I love you’, because it was...it was...Well, things were vastly better than they once were, but words got stuck in their throat when either of their parents said that. Words they were supposed to say, and words they weren’t. 

They answered Pierre. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Perfect translation of common Chinese greeting! No, I haven’t. I have food. Come over. Sleep over. Bring homework if you’ve got it and do it next to me. Beat me up and then do what you feel like doing with my body and what you feel like letting me do with yours, at your leisure.”

“See you in a few, then.” They hung up. They put the apple back in the fridge. They said to the air, “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charles Babbage not only wanted to ban street musicians, but also children playing rolling-hoop-and-stick games in the street. He claimed that many carriage accidents could be blamed on runaway toy hoops. He got made fun of a great deal because of these. 
> 
> There will be more on the "Señorita" soon. Let me just say: Canon. Poly.
> 
> Silver lining to those horrible laws: the Virginia tourism board has immediately and lavishly started trying to attract LGBTQ+ tourists, accurately perceiving that NC is losing/going to lose millions of tourist dollars. For anyone not familiar with U.S. geography, the states border one another. NC is directly south of VA. Coincidentally, Virginia's motto has long been "Virginia is for Lovers", which has been good for this campaign.


	14. 'cause I can't say no

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is another E-ish chapter. Feel free to skip if that's not your thing. There is character stuff and foreshadowing, but you will be able to understand the story without it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANNOUNCEMENT: I learned to my embarrassment that Ada was Countess of Lovelace, not Duchess, so I have done my best to go back and fix all references.
> 
> ***
> 
> Chapter contains references to past misgendering, a past abusive relationship, and to an incident that I suppose you could call past cissexism, but I'm not exactly sure if that's the right term. 
> 
> Also contains impact play.

Chev knew that Pierre had reached orgasm once just from a good beating. Not with Chev. Yet.

Swish.

It wasn’t hard to believe he could, and would again, what with the sounds he was making: gasps and groans and the occasional stifled yelp. The cane wasn’t exactly like a sabre grip in Chev’s hand, and Pierre wasn’t putting up a fight, but there was still that crystalline clarity in being fast, precise, and unpredictable. They didn’t just change the landing, but also the timing. 

Swish. 

Pierre’s hands gripping the far edge of the desk, white-knuckled. Naked skin, shivering, though they’d turned the heat up.

Swish. 

Every once in awhile, he’d manage to produce phrases like, “Yesthankyouyes,” and “Don’t stop!”, but mostly just those lovely noises.

Swish.

Chev stopped when they ran out of new surface area within the safe impact zone. Pierre’s legs were shaking considerably now, anyway. “Turn around, baby,” they said softly.

Pierre did. His face was red and his eyes glistening. Chev stepped forward and kissed him. “You okay?”

“Very.”

They put the cane on the desk with a clack. “Lotion for you and condom for me sound good?”

“Very.”

“Those and a glass of juice are on the beside table. Go lie down for a moment and drink the juice.”

Pierre smiled hopefully. “Will you put a leash on me for when I worship you? Please?”

Warmth bloomed in Chev’s chest at the word choice. “Since you asked so nicely.”

***

Chev didn’t let Pierre suck them until Pierre was hydrated and his bruises tended.

For reasons that made Pierre sad when he thought too hard about it, Chev was triggered by discussion of their body in more than anything but nonsexy matter-of-fact terms. For reasons that made him even sadder, Chev was triggered by someone speaking French to them in bed.

Not dirty talk, then. Devotion talk, in English. Pierre could do that.

Chev didn’t want to undress all the way today. That was okay. They wanted to be touched this way today, and how lucky was Pierre to be around for that?

They weren’t wearing a bra or a shirt, but they were wearing an unbuttoned cardigan and a short skirt. No briefs or panties, both of which Chev had an assortment of.

They’d buckled a collar around his neck and clipped a leash to it, and it was tight-coiled in their hand, and Pierre was the sub here but he felt such a need to make Chev feel safe and perfect that it overrided everything else. 

Pierre crawled up the bed, hands and knees, and rubbed his face against the remaining softness of Chev’s stomach. They’d lost weight after last Halloween, and then developed an affinity for the gym, but there was still a little there, and Chev let out a startled but not displeased sound. 

“I’m so lucky,” Pierre breathed, clinging and nosing at their torso but not yet any private areas. “If you asked me to forsake all other play partners, even touching myself, and only have the privilege of what you give me, I would. If you wanted me to come please you in the middle of the night, and you were home and I was here, I’d ride my bicycle there. I would.”

“Pierre…”

“If you wanted me to make you come two, three times before I was allowed to come even once, I would.”

“Dammit, Pierre…”

“If I could go back in time and systematically ruin the lives of anyone who has ever made you feel less than beautiful or handsome or sexy or whole or whatever it is you’ve wanted to feel that you’ve always deserve to feel, and the only way I could do it would be if I went right this second, incredibly aroused and also almost stark naked, I would do it.”

“I’m glad I’ve got you on a leash, then,” they said, their snark tempered by breathiness, too.

“Mmm. Anywhere off-limits tonight?”

“You have free reign, even if you gave me a free rein,” Chev said, waggling the leash. Both grinned at the lame pun.

So tonight, Pierre got to cup and fondle Chev’s breasts and lightly tongue their nipples. He got to reach down and mold his hands to the shape of Chev’s ass. Chev hissed when Pierre found a sensitive spot at the small of their back. They grabbed his face in their hands and pressed their mouths together. This escalated into a side-by-side, increasingly furious makeout, with biting on both sides.

Then Chev carefully, yet quickly, pushed Pierre onto his back. They wedged a plump pillow under Pierre’s head and neck, hitched up their skirt, and took a foil packet out of one of their cardigan pockets. A lot of brick-and-mortar stores didn’t carry condoms in Chev’s size, likely due to it being an uncommon size to start, then because of penis-havers who were embarrassed to buy the size in person. Chev bought theirs online. 

“If you ever want to be fluid-bonded, just say the word,” Pierre said. “I’d get tested for you.”

“Mm, that’s a serious non-coital, um, talk, conversation, sweet P, but I appreciate the thing. Thought. Now to quote ‘Much Ado About Nothing’, perhaps...just a sec….the original and, well, certainly the best modern...genre...it’s a genre...romantic comedy! Except Grosse Pointe Blank, but that’s neither here nor there.” Chev finished putting on the condom. They didn’t sit on Pierre’s chest so much as straddle it and lean forward. “Peace! I will stop your mouth.”

***

Immediately after Pierre got them to shuddering release and they had a moment to reconfigure, Chev returned the favor. They could deepthroat his while periodically giving Pierre’s navel piercing a twist, and using an unused condom as a sheath to casually slip one tantalizing finger into him, and Pierre couldn’t see what Chev was doing to his balls, but whatever it was, it was gnnaahhhgnn. 

They had anal sex sometimes, with Chev riding Pierre, or Chev fucking Pierre in a way that Pierre found to be a deliciously maddening tease. But it was rarer for Chev to be in the mood for that. Pierre was more than sufficiently excited to finally be able to have a cock in his mouth without choking on it. On less vulnerable days, Chev joked that penises were essentially clitorises with delusions of grandeur and an incorporated urethra. And that theirs had gotten the memo to change, and succeeded, but lost enthusiasm partway.

(On a really vulnerable day, Chev had confided in Pierre that as far as they knew, the first thing the OB-GYN said to their father after their birth was, “We’ve determined that it’s a boy. Don’t worry, the mutation is benign and treatable.”) 

When Chev was in a mood to play but not have sex, they’d beat Pierre, stick something long and thick from the box under the bed into him, and play with the vibrator settings while holding Pierre’s down until Pierre reached the desired kind of sobbing. 

Pierre reached the desired kind of sobbing pretty quickly this time, too. 

***

“Pretty pretty please, don’t you ever ever feel, like you’re less than, perfect fucking…”

Chev ushered Pierre into the shower. “Has anyone told you you have a lovely singing voice?”

“A few people. I sang in the chorus in musicals. They wouldn’t give me lines, but my tics didn’t affect singing. Do you think I’d look good in glasses?” Pierre tried to turn on the water, but he seemed to be having trouble remembering how it all worked. 

Chev turned it on, and adjusted the temperature of the water as it came out of the whatchamacallit before pulling the thingy that made the water come out the other thingy. (Pierre retained verbal memory after sex, but his procedural memory was weak until the afterglow faded. Chev was the other way around.)

“Why, do you need glasses?”

“Probably. I got a physical from the Neuralyzine people, and they said so.”

Chev understood why Pierre might have wanted to contemplate the advice before saying anything. Becoming a person who constantly wore glasses, like it or not, changed how people perceived you. “I think you’d look good in the right kind of thingamajigs.” Precious, actually, but they weren’t sure how much Pierre wanted to hear that adjective in this context.

“Frames? Pass me the face scrub.”

“Here you go. Yeah, frames.” Chev remembered something. “Oh, hey, Pierre, you were reading a book on. Um. Codes. What was it called?”

“The Code Book. Do you want to borrow it? There’s a fantastic chapter on the Navajo Code Talkers of WWII.”

There was also a chapter that discussed different types of codes and ciphers, Chev remembered Pierre saying. It might help Chev narrow down how to crack the one in the letter. They were now paranoid that Ada could track their web searches even if they took their usual security measures. Not that Ada was high on the list of potential betrayers, but Armistead might be displeased. “Yeah. Do you have it?”

“Either I do, somewhere in my bookcase, or I left it at Friedrich’s.” Pierre only had one bookcase, but it was taller than either of them, and the books were nested two or three rows deep on each shelf. “Is it urgent?”

If it was super urgent, Armistead should have communicated that urgency in some way. Chev picked up the bottle of bodywash and smiled at their boyfriend. “It can wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if I'd call the newborn-Chev anecdote a cissexism thing, because the doctors live in a society where they have to put M or F on the birth certificate and they're working with what they have, in good faith? And many intersex people's gender identities match their chromosomes, so they weren't inevitably wrong? You get my drift, though, I hope. I trigger warn as best I can. 
> 
> Grosse Pointe Blank is my favorite romantic comedy. It doesn't follow the usual pattern. A hired killer with a heart of gold, played by John Cusack, attends his 10th high school reunion and tries to rekindle romance with his high school sweetheart in a very healthy and respectful way. Meanwhile a bunch of people are trying to kill or arrest him. A few elements of how his business works inspired how this Agency works. ^_^
> 
> By "fluid-bonded", Pierre means that he and Chev would stop using condoms with each other, which is pretty special if you're responsibly polyamorous. I think it made sense in context, but just in case.
> 
> Du Ponceau states in his memoirs that the biggest reason he resisted getting spectacles was (paraphrased) "in those days, young men didn't wear spectacles, and I was something of a beau, if you will believe me". The fact that most of his memoirs were written to/dictated to his granddaughter makes them extra adorable.
> 
> Du Ponceau also states that he was popular at tea parties and dinner parties because he could sing bits of Italian opera and French folks songs, which were a huge novelty, and had a good voice.
> 
> The Code Book is a great book. It goes all the way from ancient Rome and China to a crash course in the basic ideas behind modern cryptography, with a tip of the hat to Babbage at once point (Ada did programming, but irl she didn't do codebreaking like Babbage did). There's an extensive and poignant section on Alan Turing, too.


	15. seek you, see through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epistolary chapter!

[Email]

Dear Pierre,

Friedrich invited Fritz and I to his party this coming Saturday night. I imagine it was more of a courtesy invitation, given that we do not run in the same circles in that regard. However, I took the opportunity to broach a delicate topic with Fritz. After thorough discussion, he’s given me his blessing to say:

After the two meetings I’ve had with you, I’ve become rather attracted. I’m not interested in pursuing a romantic relationship beyond the one have. But you’re an extremely clever and beautiful young man. Fritz says you probably hear that a lot, but what can I say? I believe in describing the world as it is.

Unlike me, Fritz has never been comfortable with threesomes, so that’s off the table from the start. However, he would be fine with you and I interacting within the bounds of the party’s rules, which forbid touching-with-intent-to-cause-climax but allow various other forms of touching, while he could see what we were doing. 

I thought it’d be disingenuous of me to go to this party, where you will not be very clothed, and not let you know that the opportunity to see you will be a significant proportion of my reason for going. The rest is curiosity and my friendship with Friedrich. 

So, would you prefer that 

a) we not go to the party at all ?

b) we go to the party and I not touch you, though maybe look at you?

c) we go to the party and you grace me with your presence and physical contact, of a sensual but not fully sexual variety?

I’m thirty years older than you, and already connected to you in a convoluted social web, and of course there are personal preferences to take into account. If you were a student at William & Mary, let alone one of mine, I wouldn’t be saying a word at all, and if you feel that I am overstepping bounds in a similar way despite you going to a different college, I profusely apologise and will withdraw immediately. I will not be offended in the slightest if your reply is something other than yes to option C. I ask only that you keep this confidential between us and your romantic/sexual partners (should you wish to consult them), and of course any therapist you might be currently seeing if that would be helpful to you. 

Yours most sincerely,  
Francesco Algarotti

***

[series of text messages]

Fritz: hello Chev

Fritz: Fran says Pierre said he talked to you

Fritz: Confirm?

Chev: Yes, np, have fun, he’d better not make Pierre sad, etc

Fritz: ^^

Fritz: My niece said that shows you’re pleased in a calm way

Chev: She’s right

Fritz: So if Fran and I will be at the party on Sat night, we’ll stay in hotel

Fritz: and you could easily come over the next day to have that talk with me

Fritz: about how f’ed up the crime life is and how f’ed up I am

Fritz: and how you might manage to be less f’ed 

Fritz: which I really hope for you, kid

Chev: Thanks.

Chev: Would Francesco be there?

Fritz: no, he knows my past but wants deniability about your present

Fritz: and future. He’s going to check out a used bookstore downtown that’s open Sundays.

Fritz: and he’s heard there’s a cafe that can make an espresso that fits his insane standards

Chev: aw

Fritz: bring me pastries Sunday morning and I’ll tell you my tragedies, how’s that?

Chev: excellent

Fritz: ^&

Fritz: I mean ^^

***

[Phone call]

“Hello, could you connect me to Louis Pontiere, please? Inmate 260117?”

“Your call will be recorded, and this is not a toll-free number.”

“Understood.”

Ring.

Ring.

“Hello?”

“I like the hat.”

Click.

***

[Voicemail]

“Hey, it’s Martha. Yes, I’ll be free to take you to the Lenscrafters with the huge sale going on after your neurology appointment. John was right about my work schedule change. I think you’d be a knockout in slender metallic frames.” 

***

[Newly deciphered letter]

cheque2cts

If you could not figure out this book cipher, you would not be very good at your job, I decided. I went to your library to find out which A Tale of Two Cities would be most obvious for you to try. Should this letter become impossible to understand, this means you need to find a different one with different page numbers.

I am doing something I should not be doing. I have learned that you are friends with (Fealty Tea), or at least he has been kind to you.

I owe (Fealty Tea) a debt. Please. If someone wants anything done regarding him, take the job. If you care for him take the job. Tell me. 

To show you have understood, call me and use the word “tea” in a sentence. I will say something about a bird.

***

[Phone call]

“Hello?”

“Agent Armistead, this is Charles-Genevieve d’Eon.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Suppose someone of my acquaintance were trying to smuggle a bunch of luxury food and beverage products into the country - liquor, fine teas, caviar, so on - would it be predominantly the jurisdiction of the Department of Agriculture? Not an FBI matter, surely.”

“Any FBI agent who got jurisdictions mixed up like that would be an absolute turkey.” Bingo. 

“Thought so. Hey, on a related matter, according to some, where do the finest lentils in all of Europe come from?”

“Le Puy-en-Velay, why?” 

That was Lafayette’s home city, and he loved telling the story of how Adrienne’s father was asked to come “study the lentils”, thus bringing her into his life when they were children. Yes, Armistead was almost definitely friends with Lafayette and not lying. Chev could find a way to subtly confirm it with Lafayette later. 

“Oh god, I hear sirens, I gotta go!” Chev hung up. If Armistead’s superiors heard the conversation, hopefully they’d figure it was another day in the life of babysitting of a semi-tame spy agency. 

Now what was going on with Lafayette?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was in high school, there were some boys in a few of my classes who invented a game called Turkey Bingo. It was based on who in class raised their hand. To announce a bingo, the bingo-er had to raise his hand and add a comment that made perfect sense in context, yet contained the words "turkey" and "bingo". The key thing was that the teacher and majority of classmates shouldn't notice. (I found out about it because I raised my hand a lot, and one of the guys started nudging me to do it at strategic times.)
> 
> Example from English class that I still remember: "But what if the Mariner shot the albatross because they were all starving on the ship? It's not like you're going to be out at sea and - hey, bingo, a turkey!"


	16. circle rolling under

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The general delights that comprise Chev's backstory, and a cissexist remark.
> 
> Also contains a store policy that may not actually exist anywhere, but is in here because Plot.

“I’m sorry I’m late, like so incredibly late,” Chev said as Pierre entered the car, flinging a bunch of reusable shopping totes into the backseat before fastening his own seatbelt. “Group meetings.”

From the Treaty of Last November onwards, Friedrich got dibs on Pierre on Friday nights and Chev got him on Sundays. Other times during the week varied and could be more spontaneous, but it helped the harmony by having two definite recurring squares on the calendar. However, Pierre was going to be at Friedrich’s party on Saturday night and stay through late Sunday morning or afternoon, so it made sense to swap this weekend. 

So it was Friday, precious Friday, in a week when for one reason or another Chev hadn’t seen Pierre much, and Chev couldn’t stay up too late. It was a Friday when they and Pierre were going to mount an expedition to the nearest Trader Joe’s grocery store, about an hour away.

Of course, then, it was a Friday when Mr. 15 gave Chev a call and ordered them to spy on Señorita Prime as she went to a restaurant with both her lovers and make sure she wasn’t also meeting up with Count Lascivious. He was apparently trying to do the spymaster equivalent of making two disruptive kids sit at opposite ends of the room. 

The Señorita, of course, being actually an accomplished stage actress by name of Josefa Ordóñez, who fled Mexico City after her illegal gambling house that also sold various illegal substances was discovered. Her most loyal filthy rich paramours, Fernando and José, ran off with her. She had had other filthy rich paramours, but Chev guessed they were less loyal. Or maybe these guys liked each other, too. Chev hadn’t gotten much of a briefing. 

Of course, after Chev had been forced to sit a few tables away and carefully watch her for two hours, she’d come up to them and told them they’d done a great job not looking like the photo Mr. 15 showed her. Full marks, looking forward to being your acting and disguise coach when Admin says you’re ready. They were polite, but got away as soon as possible. They had to make a few wardrobe and makeup adjustments inside their car, though, because they didn’t want to look that fully masculine for the rest of the evening. 

It wasn’t the task itself, or the woman herself, it was the timing and being made to feel stupid. 

Pierre looked at them. “You’re all stressed. We can go some other time.”

“My fridge looks even worse than yours, plus you have the five-meal Off-Campus-Student plan per week at the dining hall. I’m just flustered from hurrying, that’s all.”

“We could grocery shop somewhere else. Wegmans has produce and bakery sections that are at least as good, and it’s way closer.”

“I agree. However, nowhere else has the full selection of reasonably healthy frozen and/or dehydrated foodstuffs, that aren’t super expensive, and yet are tasty, that I require to crush my enemies beneath my dainty little feet. Besides, didn’t you want to contribute those bite-size quiches to the party? And you were going on about how much you wanted a few of their microwavable curries?

“I get it, you’re enthusiastic.” Pierre was too damn cute in his new glasses. When Chev had come to check on him after his third Neuralizine injection, they’d felt a perverse desire to somehow - metaphorically, yet viscerally - shrink him down into a little ball and eat him. That cute. Pierre had slept a lot and felt queasy the next day. He’d taken measures against fainting. Chev was glad Pierre’s appointments would no longer be weekly, and that sessions would continue to stretch in longer and longer intervals.

Chev started the car. “Have you eaten?”

“Yeah, Mandarin club invited me to their Chinese New Year dinner even though I’m not a current member. It was nice. I ate too many _jiaozi_ \- I mean, dumplings. They’re lucky, because they look like ancient-style wallets. Supposed to help you get richer over the coming year. I think eating dumplings is lucky because you’re eating dumplings, myself.”

“I also ate. That’s good. No going nuts with impulse buys.” Thankfully, because Chev absolutely had to go to a specific restaurant and eat something there to follow orders, they’d be compensated for it. They’d taken a picture of the receipt as backup before tucking it away for safekeeping.

The two of them chatted pleasantly about lighthearted things, until their car got stuck behind a road accident and everyone started inching forward. “Not inching forward, centimeter-ing forward,” Chev complained. 

“I hope everyone’s okay,” Pierre said.

Chev softened. “You would say that.”

Thanks to Chev’s lateness plus the traffic jam, the pair didn’t reach their destination until 8:40. That should be fine, though, Trader Joe’s closed at 10.

“Oh no, this is one of the branches that closes at 9,” Pierre said, pointing at the door.

Chev took a cart anyway. “Both of us have lists of exactly what we want. I’m sure if the cart is full, or mostly full, they’ll let us finish the transaction.”

Pierre wasn’t sure about this, so he darted off to ask someone while Chev made a beeline for the frozen and boxed meals. There were an increasing number of days now when if they didn’t have something easy to eat, they didn’t want to bother. They didn’t want to reduce what they were doing. Just how tired it made them. They’d underestimated how much they’d previously used one day of the weekend to get work and errands done, and the other day to simply be lazy and replenish themselves. Then there was the increased worrying about and taking care of their boyfriend…

The boyfriend in question reappeared with the half-baked quiches and his favorite chocolate milk in hand. “The manager said that in this branch, the policy is that if you’re mid-transaction at 9 PM then they’ll finish the transaction, but otherwise you will be asked to leave regardless of how full your cart is. Also I need the bathroom?”

“Give me your list. We’ll take turns.” This store had two one-person unisex bathrooms, a precious commodity. 

It was 8:52, and only one cashier was still on duty, and only two pairs of customers. Chev rushed for the cash register as best they could without appearing comical. They clearly arrived before their one competitor did, but the middle-aged man used his cart to shove theirs out of the way.

The cashier cleared her throat. “Sir, I believe -”

The man indicated his young daughter, who was staring in awe at the various unusual store-brand chocolates available at checkout. “We’re grabbing a few things we forgot for her birthday tomorrow morning.”

“It’s my birthday tomorrow?” the daughter gasped. 

Her father ignored her. He looked at Chev and raised an eyebrow. “I think he or she or whatever that is can cope.”

Now, Chev had some measure of sympathy for people who didn’t have time to fit Chev into their current breadth of experience, or if they were in jobs where they had to follow a script, since as servers in restaurants. What mattered was if they tried. If they made an effort to be polite or understanding. But a sentence like that - those were fighting words.

Chev smiled at the little girl. “Did you know that chocolate comes from special beans that you have to carefully pick by hand? Lots and lots of farms where they grow them use little kids just like you to pick those beans -”

 _“Qu'est-ce que tu fais?”_ Pierre hissed, staring at Chev.

“It’s in the hot sun, with lots of bugs. They don’t get paid much. Sometimes not at all. If they don’t pick enough beans they get hit, or they don’t get their dinner. Do you know what the saddest thing is? Those little kids never get to eat the chocolate ever in their lives. When your daddy buys chocolate for you, you’ll know where that chocolate came from. Sweetheart.”

The girl let out a piercing shriek that tapered off into sobbing. Chev didn’t bother to see how the father was looking at them. They pushed through to the checkout counter.

***

Pierre didn’t say a word until they were safely on the highway and very unlikely to get lost. 

“What the fuck was that?”

“He was clearly lying about her birthday,” Chev said.

“That doesn’t mean it was right to make her cry!”

“If he was out shopping with his daughter at 9PM, that means they live very close to the store. It’ll be easy for him to drop by again any time.”

“I repeat: that doesn’t mean it was right to make her cry!”

Chev let out a long sigh. “Child labor and the exploitative practices of the candy industry are important things to be aware of.”

“But not...not...weaponized. That was really harsh and severe for something that wasn’t even worth it.”

“Life is really cold and harsh for something that often isn’t even worth it.”

 _Do not bang your head against the dashboard, mon petit_. Since the third time he’d played with her, Pierre’s rational inner voice sounded like Adrienne. “If we were super determined instead of being willing to simply let go of the matter, we could have explained our situation and asked nicely.”

“Maybe in your world.”

“What, and you live in some dystopian universe where being a stone-cold manipulative schemer is the only way to get what you want?”

“YES!”

Pierre nearly had a heart attack at Chev’s volume and vehemence. He opened his mouth to say something, and no words came out.

The volume went back down, way down, and that was almost worse. “We both grew up with things that made us stand out, with things that made other kids cruel to us. Imagine if the adults had those same feelings, but dressed up and made shiny. Imagine if your parents decided that your tics were such a big deal that they should get your corpus callosum severed to try to fix them, and yelled at you if you disagreed. People have been mean to you. I don’t deny that. They were outliers. People have been nice to me. I don’t deny that. YOU are the outliers. More than ninety percent of anything I get - that I need, not just want, need - comes from me clawing it out of the dirt. And tripping anyone who gets in the way.”

“Chev…”

“So yeah, maybe I overreacted to wanting to get out of there with our groceries. Maybe I overreacted to the guy taking a dig at me. That’s how it starts, though, people thinking I deserve less than them because…”

"Damn, sorry. I didn’t think about that aspect right away.

Chev chuckled darkly. “I know. Nice little luxury, isn’t it?”

This late, the roads were fairly clear, but the silence stretched eons. Pierre watched the shadowed trees go by. He didn’t know what to say.

They got to the parking lot of Pierre’s apartment building, and Pierre looked at Chev for the first time since Chev’s rhetorical question.

Silent tears were streaming down their face.

Pierre reached out, offering touch but not imposing it. “Honey. Baby. Chevy.” 

Chev leaned over and buried their face in Pierre’s shoulder, crying so very quietly, the way someone learns to cry if they’ve been taught that being heard will do them no favors. “I’m fucked up.”

“Maybe a little,” Pierre said, rubbing their back, though the angle was awkward. “A lot of the people I love are. It wasn’t your idea.”

A giggle mixed in with the weeping. “You’re a nice outlier.”

“Oh, darling, dear Chev, I’m sorry I didn’t think about what the man said.”

“I’m sorry I was...that I expressed things the way I did. I was a bit of an asshole to that poor kid.”

“Kinda. On a sliding scale of being an asshole to a kid, though, abrupt sad truth is on the lower end. Maybe chat with your therapist about how you got to that plan.”

“Yeah.” Chev was still leaking tears through this. “I should sleep soon.”

“If you don’t mind the possibility of my night terrors, you can stay with me rather than go stew in woe on your own. Or irritate Jeanne with all the woe-stew sloshing around.”

“She’s nicer about woe-stew than I used to worry, but yeah, I might not be up for driving alone. I can store my stuff in your fridge and freezer overnight if I need to, I assume.” Chev kept clinging. It was like a light and softer version of when Pierre found them, and not only rescued them but possibly kept them from killing Louie in panic.

Another silence. Chev was still leaking. Pierre’s back wasn’t enthusiastic about this position (not the first time such a sentence had been true, though the other times were quick fixes). “Have you heard of Prince Rupert’s drops?”

“Uh uh. Sounds like a lozenge brand.”

“Kinda does. You make them by dropping, uh, droplets of red-hot molten glass into cold water. All at once. Then you get a tadpole-shaped piece of glass, round body, long and thin tail. You can hit the main body with a hammer without breaking it. Stomp on it. Put it through an incredible amount of stuff, and it’s fine. But if you snip the tail, it immediately shatters into a million tiny pieces.”

“Huh.”

“The tails aren’t necessarily straight. They can curve, and they’re so thin and clear it’s hard to see them. So you see a piece of glass that’s so strong that you think nothing could hurt it, not really, nothing that isn’t super extreme. Even if you know that it’s glass. Even if you know that it’s got a center under its own pressure, that its strength comes from it squeezing itself harder than anything.” Pierre had been talking to Alexander too much, probably. Alexander “King of the Overwrought Analogies” Hamilton.

“Mm.”

“Maybe...if I could see the tail better? Maybe I’d be better...not that you have to...not that you’re obliged...but if I knew more about where, before you shattered instead of after...”

Chev sat up and wiped away their tears. “Maybe.” They leaned forward and kissed Pierre. Delicately. A droplet of glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't change much about Spanish-born Mexican actress Josefa Ordóñez, except that she eloped with the two guys unsuccessfully, and that she had a husband the government made her go back to (after the case against her for being a courtesan failed for lack of evidence). What a character. I discovered her when searching for an 18th century actress who got in trouble with the law. As one does. 
> 
> The corpus callosum connects the left and right halves of the brain. There are extreme brain disorders where severing it is a legitimate option, and would massively improve quality of life, but Tourette's is not one of them.


	17. I can hear it in your sighs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter had an ungainly amount of background activity to fill in, I can tell you.
> 
> Severe emetophobes, proceed with mild caution.

Pierre asked what he could contribute to the party other than the box of frozen mini quiches. Friedrich told him to take Azor for a run, then come back and “help me pregame”. (“Is that what they’re calling it now?” Benjy asked good-naturedly, as he was in earshot. He was tidying the living room.) Then take a nap. Then have dinner. Then follow the rules they’d agreed on. Whilst being cute.

“I’ve had some experience,” Pierre assured him. 

“A good long run, so he won’t be EQUESTRIAN antsy in his cage,” Friedrich added. “How’s your head?”

“Still fine.”

“Mm. I need to go back to labeling the parts of the playroom that are off-limits.” The living room and kitchen would be for chatting, the playroom for casual demonstrations and games, the hall bathroom for standard bathroom things only, and the guest room for if someone needed a moment of quiet. 

***

“There, now we’re both unlikely to get overexcited later,” Friedrich concluded.

“Nganmhggg,” Pierre replied. Since he was young enough to come twice in a relatively short time, Friedrich had decided they should act accordingly. He let himself be tucked in, and slept for an hour.

***

It was 8 PM and most of the guests who had RSVP’ed - fourteen in total - were here. Pierre was unexpectedly nervous and Friedrich had an arm around his shoulders for now, pointing out people. 

He was wearing a t-shirt Chev had given him. It said “There are two kinds of people. People who can extrapolate from incomplete data”. Sexy fetish wear was for his Marquis and Marquise. Special. Besides, this was supposed to be a cozy and friendly atmosphere. 

Over it, he had the special sweater Friedrich knitted for him the Christmas before last. It was soft, dark blue, and the sleeves connected in the back. He could hold his own hand. It was made in such a way that it was easy for someone else to put it on him or take it off, and impossible to put on himself. It was possible for him to take it off without help, but that would stretch it out of shape. That way he could do so in an emergency, but he had a deterrent against doing it otherwise. Perfect. It stretched down low enough that it kept him reasonably modest as long as he stood straight and still. Otherwise, it didn’t. He'd decided to skip his glasses for now, as he wouldn't be able to adjust them if they started slipping or went crooked. 

“...and that’s Josefa, and those are her subs Fernando and Jose, who are only permitted to talk to her tonight except in dire need,” Friedrich concluded. 

“Wow, her pubic hair’s shaved into a heart.” It looked soft and inviting, in its own way. Pierre hadn’t interacted with a vulva in a while. Sigh.

“You can go compliment her later.” Friedrich had taken his as-needed medication with the incredibly miserable after-effects to make himself tic-free for a few hours. 

Francesco cautiously waved at him from the other side of the room. He and Fritz were topless rather than bottomless, as were Benjy, the wobbly-but-cheerful woman whose ballet boots required her to sit frequently to keep from injuring herself, and the “kitten” currently enjoying a string being dangled in front of her. She probably didn’t want to hurt her knees while scampering around on all fours. Of course, since everyone was half-naked, the heat had been turned up, and there were throw blankets available.

Pierre couldn’t wave back, but he grinned.

“Go sit with them,” Friedrich said. “I need to make announcements.”

Francesco was in an armchair, while Fritz had pulled up one of the padded folding chairs Will had dutifully dug out of the basement storage room during his most recent visit to the house. “Oh, hello.”

“Hey there. So, tonight I’ve agreed to only sit on floors, tables, the toilet if I must, or laps. If I’m going to sit on the floor I’ll need help getting down and up again, but if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to get a bit closer.”

“That’s my line,” Francesco joked, and beckoned. He helped Pierre settle in sideways so they could still see each others’ faces. Fritz assisted in getting Pierre’s knees hooked over one of the chair’s arms.

Friedrich loudly declared, “Everyone, welcome to my home. Though I am the host of the party, Benjy over here is my steward for the night and it would be best to go to him with questions and concerns first.”

Benjy waved. “Also, I’m the bartender and snackmeister.”

“Please follow Benjy’s instructions on Salamander technique. We are not responsible if you do it wrong and hurt yourself, and you are responsible if you do it wrong and burn the place down. We don’t want to repeat the incident from two years ago.”

A few of the guests either chuckled or facepalmed at this.

“Benjy can also provide you with a nametag-style sticker on which you can write any information you don’t feel like repeating over and over. Pierre, for example, could perhaps write on it that he’s promised not to sit directly on chairs or sofas tonight. I could write on mine that while of course any rudeness or disrespecting consent will be sternly dealt with, anything untoward towards Pierre will face a massive overreaction.”

“It’s nice to know that you’ve become more self-aware over the years,” Fritz said dryly. “Do the good folk here know how you came up with those flaming drinks in the first place?”

Was Friedrich blushing a little? “I’m sure you’ll enjoy telling everyone. Ah, yes, I sent out a memo a few days ago, but to reiterate, there has been a change of rules. Obviously visible intoxication means no play whatsoever. Now there will be no impact play of any sort. None. Not in a demo, not simply messing around, none.”

“Including spankings?” someone piped up.

“Including. It shouldn’t make much of a difference. This is a cocktail party with kink, not a play party with drink.”

Pierre had wondered about the revised rule when it was first sent out. He’d noticed that it was sent earlier this week, shortly after Fritz and Francesco RSVP’ed. He remembered that Fritz had spent time in Vernon for PTSD. Pierre had assumed it was from whatever classified military (paramilitary?) work he used to do with Friedrich, but it made him wonder.

***

“So have your sister and niece found a more permanent home?” Pierre asked Fritz, once the party had fragmented into people sitting/milling/stumbling/crawling around. Though the newly arrived Little might be better described as “toddling”. He was speaking in simple sentences and had a sippy cup and a pacifier, and wore a big t-shirt covered in drawings of toy cars. Pierre was hoping he’d start frolicking with the kitten eventually. It’d be really sweet. 

“What? Oh, yes. It’s only a few hours’ drive away.” Fritz bit his lip. “How about you two get more comfortable while I go see what the kitchen has to offer other than fiery shots? I’ll get you anything I think you might like, and if you’re wrong I’ll eat or drink it myself.”

“Sounds good, dear. We contributed cheese and crackers, but they’re really good cheeses,” Francesco told Pierre.

“Not judging you,” Pierre said, watching Fritz leave.

They were silent for a moment. Then Francesco said, “I like the SPEECHLESS tattoo on your inner thigh. Very clear lettering.”

“Thanks! I got it from James Barry. He’s the best in the area, definitely. It’s hard to keep lettering clear and crisp, especially in an area that gets rubbed a lot. By pant legs, I mean. Usually. Um. Sometimes by hands. That’s okay. Yeah, like that, that’s a thing that happens.”

“Is it?” His hand was feather-light.

“Yes. Have you...taught anything interesting lately?” Pierre felt stupid but pressed on. “Don’t hesitate before each touch. If the rules of the party allow it you can try it and I’ll tell you to stop if I want you to, okay?” 

Francesco smiled and ran a thumb along Pierre’s collarbone. “Okay. I think I’ll wait until my partner gets back before the first time I kiss you, though, so I can check his reaction. As for your question, the other day one of my classes ended up having a lively debate on bioethics that quickly descended into unusual ad hominem…”

***

Pierre had absolutely no objection to being alternately fed canapes and being kissed by someone he wasn’t sure he’d want to sleep with but certainly liked a lot, while also getting to hear about research methodology in a far more interesting way than he ever had before. 

He wanted to ask Fritz about his friend Voltaire and if there was a way to get tickets to Voltaire’s new off-Broadway show, but he’d seen them shout at each other at the cancer fundraiser and didn’t want to pick at a scab while emotions were already running high. Fritz seemed more interested than horrified at the display in front of him, at least.

“While I’m enjoying myself immensely, I’d like to try one of those ‘Salamanders’, since they seem to be the other great pillar of this tradition,” Francesco said eventually.

Fritz laughed. “We were on a business trip and got snowed in, and the power went out, and he got stir-crazy and mixed up a bunch of stuff from the mini bar. It took a few tries to get something palatable. Then he said, ‘It’s so fucking cold, I’m going to flambe this fucking shot.’ Thankfully his strategy of ‘set alight, count to three, blow out, then immediately knock back’ didn’t burn his esophagus.”

“Would he have gotten...fired?” Francesco asked, looking pleased with himself. Well, given that he had his crush half-naked and amenable in his lap, that was a logical facial expression for him to have. Lame pun or no lame pun. 

“That’s quite the incendiary remark,” Fritz replied.

Francesco reached out for a high-five, which Fritz indulged him with. “As I was saying. It might be nice for us to mix and mingle a bit as well?”

“But return here in an hour,” Pierre said. He leaned forward for a bit of sustained making out first. He would describe Francesco’s style as methodical and comprehensive.

***

Neuralizine was compatible with, say, a glass of wine with dinner, but it wasn’t compatible with liquor. Pierre hadn’t asked about liquor that was on fire a second ago. It was fun watching others drink it, though. He chatted with a few strangers, one of whom he permitted to ruffle his hair upon request. Miss Ballet Boots had taken them off for the time being, “to give my arches a break”.

Then woman Pierre remembered being told was Josefa emerged from the basement door. “I have been asked to demonstrate a special tickling technique I’ve boasted about, but my loves are shy of modeling in front of others. Any volunteers?”

“What would it involve?” Pierre asked.

“They’d hold you still and I’d tickle you for either two minutes or when you ask for it to stop, whichever came first,” Josefa said.

Pierre wasn’t drunk with alcohol, but he was tipsy with attention and wanted even more. “I’ll do it.”

Downstairs there was a group of people playing...Jenga? A hot, flirty man was explaining the rules of ‘Debauchery Jenga’ to someone who had just joined. He had a nametag saying “Casey, pansexual heteromantic switch, almost certainly up for it ;)” Pierre gathered from the snippets he heard that Casey had taken an ordinary Jenga set and written a dirty Truth or Dare on each block. Truth on one side, Dare on the other. There was a choice of forfeits if you made the stack collapse. One of the participant’s hands were cuffed in front of zer, so zie was allowed to pull out blocks by proxy once the stack got precarious.

Azor yipped a few times from inside the closed laundry room. Did he know Pierre was nearby? He was in a cage inside the room rather than just locked inside the room because of the time he’d tried to drink some spilled detergent and needed a visit to the vet. A sweet dog. Not the brightest.

The bed had a dropcloth over it right now. It felt a bit like a stage. “I’m wearing a shirt under this. Maybe it’d be easier if you took my sweater off,” Pierre suggested.

“I’ll do that,” Friedrich said. Pierre wasn’t sure when he’d shown up.

“You said you wouldn’t be possessive of me,” Pierre teased. Overprotective, maybe, but not possessive.

“I’m not. I’m possessive of that sweater. Do you have any idea how long it took me?” He modestly accepted all the praise that followed for his handiwork.

Soon two silent men were holding Pierre flat and spread. “I feel like a human sacrifice…”

Josefa smirked. “No ceremonial dagger, I promise. Is it alright by you if I peel your shirt back?” 

“Bring it on.”

***

“Thank you for being such a good sport,” Josefa said afterwards. She affectionately patted his chest and signaled for her lovers to let him up.

“I think...I might have a new kink,” Pierre gasped with the few molecules of air left in his lungs.

“Yes, me too,” Friedrich said, approaching. “You were adorable. Let’s get this sweater back on you.”

Pierre whispered, “Maybe after I pee?” 

***

“You’re quiet,” Francesco said when Pierre was back in his lap. This time he, Fritz, and Friedrich had taken over the living room couch. 

“I’m most of the way to subspace,” Pierre explained.

“I believe that’s a good thing?”

“Mmhm. As good as coming, and I can make myself come, but I can’t make myself go into subspace. Not me.”

“Is there a way I can help?”

“A few hickeys often helps,” Friedrich offered from the other end of the furniture.

“Yes...mm, yeah…”

“I’m glad I’m wearing pants,” Francesco remarked. He pressed down on the newly created bruise and Pierre sighed in the best way. 

Then he dug his nails into Pierre’s thigh. Pierre squirmed. “Not that.”

“Oh, sorry!”

“It’s okay. I told you that you could try stuff.”

“I don’t want to do anything you wouldn’t like.”

Meanwhile, Friedrich and Fritz started talking quietly in German. At first it was background noise. Because of cognates, Pierre knew they were talking about a father, something about a father.

Then he started getting more and more distracted from the sharp-edged tenderness Francesco was lavishing on him, a safely bound, near-helpless object of adoration. It should have been all-encompassing and perfect. 

But as the warm fuzz of subspace quieted the usual whirring cacophony of his thoughts, something else started filling up the space. It wouldn’t stop.

_Cognate. Noun. Noun. Verb. Compound word, German lets you build words, what’s that term for that? Polysynthetic? My head hurts. They’re talking about work. Sadness. Adjectives. That word must mean ‘hospital’. My head hurts._

Francesco had stopped. No, he shouldn’t stop, he was the comfortable-head-maker. Now all Pierre could think about was the language a few feet away. “Pierre, you look pale.”

“It’s not you, it’s probably the new medication. I had the third dose a few days ago.”

“Do you need water? Or to lie down?”

_Imperative. Declarative. Prefix. Noun. That word has appeared many times. It’s always followed by a noun. They are talking about death. They are talking about divorce. That there is a name. Emilie is a name. They are talking about the Swiss city of Bern._

Friedrich noticed something was wrong. “Little gecko?”

“Meds,” Pierre said weakly. At least he managed to throw up on the carpet rather than on anybody.

***

The bedroom was dark and the blankets were warm and Friedrich helped Pierre into clean clothes and wash his face and brush his teeth and gave Pierre a teddy bear (where’d he get one?) to clutch at and curl around and he brought Pierre hydration and nausea tablets, cut into small pieces because Pierre was bad at swallowing, and a cold compress and a hot compress and some ginger tea and anything, anything, what do you need I will give you anything.

But then Friedrich started paying the price for the medication he’d taken before the party. He did his usual mitigating things and lay next to Pierre, lightly touching him now and then to make sure he was still there. Benjy ran the party until it wound down and all the guests were gone, and then he tended the two as best he could until he was exhausted. The party had been a success, at least. Fritz and Francesco had helped with the mess, and Benjy said something vague about a stomach bug that had been going around Pierre’s campus. But he was very tired, and Pierre begged him to go sleep.

Pierre stopped sharing how much his head still hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New notes + refreshers:
> 
> Du Ponceau's memoirs state that the drinks were called Salamanders, set aflame, invented by the Baron, and that they were popular, but provide no other details. He says he really enjoyed the parties. 
> 
> For understandable reasons, he doesn't explicitly out himself and the Baron. However, beyond stating that the Baron gave him a gorgeous jewel-handled sword and promised to teach him how to use it (probably accidental innuendo, but still that is not a gift I associate with giving to a secretary you have no interest in), there's an interesting discussion of something the Baron used to say to him. Which was sternly telling him not to get married. Du Ponceau calls this being "protective" of him. The Baron was very protective of him. So protective that he'd "disown" du Ponceau if he married a woman while in his employ.
> 
> It seems like du Ponceau constantly had to exit the scene because of how sick he was, and at the same time Walker started becoming a more and more prominent member of the Baron's entourage. Fortunately du Ponceau thought that was wonderful.
> 
> Du Ponceau once accepted a very time-consuming letter-translation job when he was already up to his ears in work as the Baron's aide, because he was promised a copy of Voltaire's latest book. Fifty plus years later, he was still angry that he received a warm coat instead, albeit of coarse fabric. 
> 
> I was at a party where someone brought her homemade game of Debauchery Jenga, though she'd gotten the truths and dares from online. It was fun.


	18. bring it hither

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to past child abuse and torturing people.

_Friedrich: Pierre’s still asleep, but he’s with me, and I’ll have him contact you when he wakes._

***

Chev entered the hotel room with a bag of pastries in one hand and their violin case tucked under the other arm.

“What’s that for?” Fritz asked, liberating them of the pastries. The room looked almost as though the cleaning staff had just left, except for the books sprawled all over half of the bed - many of them open, and two of them in Italian. 

“Re-read up on you yesterday when I was doing my time in the Agency Reference Library,” Chev said. They waited for Fritz to sit at the small table before taking the other seat. “Your file says you’re dead, by the way.”

“I appreciate Mr. 15 keeping up appearances,” Fritz replied. He made a platter out of napkins and started extracting the offerings from the paper sack.

It also said that it was commonly known in certain circles, but carefully unspoken “during his lifetime”, that the man in front of Chev - the man currently contemplating a raspberry danish versus pain au chocolat - went through years filled with frequent beatings from his father. Chev wondered if Fritz was aware that was in the records. Bad time to ask.

Instead, Chev said, “I’ve never been more than an adequate-for-school-orchestra violinist, but I’ve sometimes amused myself by figuring out covers of songs that don’t include violins. This came in handy when I was homeless and busking. People get more excited by stuff they recognize but aren’t used to hearing on your instrument. This may sound silly, but there’s an obscure indie song that makes me think of your story…”

Fritz settled on the pain au chocolat. “Thank you. That sounds like a good palate-cleanser after we talk, assuming it’s not too grim.”

“It isn’t.”

“Are you going to have something?”

“I already ate.”

“Do you have a starting question?” He took his first bite.

“I’m twenty-three years old. If I were your twenty-three year-old self, what would you say?”

Fritz chewed thoughtfully and swallowed before answering. “He’ll die soon, don’t bother with the elaborate fantasies. Get that toothache seen to. And you’re not a Czech border deer.”

Chev waited for the elaboration. They let him appreciate the pastry. Be patient with potential mentors who are reluctant to talk about their past. 

“During the Cold War, there was a long electric fence along forests of the German and Czech border. These days the fence is gone and that area is wildlife preserve. A criminal kingpin needs to know all potential meeting, hiding, or border-crossing places, so I know. However, the deer don’t know the fence is gone. Lush forest on the other side of where the fence used to be, and they don’t cross. New generations of border deer blocked by something that’s no longer there.”

(“That’s fascinating, but those poor deer,” said a voice in Chev’s head that resembled John Laurens.)

“I wouldn’t just be referring to, say, fear of my father. More subtle. Example: I developed a code for myself, one of which precepts was that I’d never give an order that I myself would have been unwilling to carry out, assuming I had the skillset. This meant that I occasionally personally tortured people in cold blood. I found this horrific. Loathsome. One thing to punch a man a few times, which to my shame I often enjoyed because of unresolved issues. Another thing to, say, systematically apply hot irons. It ruined my week, at minimum. But I told myself I had to do it.” 

“I’m not going to recoil from you,” Chev said gently. 

Fritz processed another bite of pastry before continuing. “It honestly never occurred to me, until in therapy recently, that I could have simply stopped ordering people tortured. That the other methods I used to get information or make a point, ones I’d come up with myself, were as effective or more than the ones my father made me learn. Watch. Imitate. In my mind, that was something the organization obviously had to keep doing, because he’d said so. Because that’s how all the other groups did it. Do it. A fence I could not see.”

It sounded like a massively scaled-up version of how some abused children grew up to become abusive adults. Though it obviously hadn’t gone that way in Fritz’s personal life. Witness his behavior towards his loved ones.

The conversation died away. Chev decided to return the favor of vulnerability. “It’s an entirely different order of experience, but I have some idea of invisible fences. When I was seventeen I found a counselor who specialized in trans* issues and told her that my parents were pushing me to either transition ‘the rest of the way’ - their words, not mine - or to get corrective surgery so I’d fit more neatly with what people expect from someone with my chromosomes.” 

To achieve their objective, Chev was willing to let Fritz in on the privileged information that Chev was intersex, but wasn’t ready to let him know in what way. They were sure Fritz would be discreet, but they just...there were layers and layers of confidentiality.

Fritz didn’t seem to mind. “What’s she say?”

“She said it sounded like I didn’t want either of them. I said neither appealed, but I had to do something. She said, ‘No, you don’t.’ I stared at her with my mouth hanging open until I whispered, ‘Oh my god, you’re right.’”

“I assume your parents weren’t fans of this conclusion, seeing as you mentioned a period of homelessness,” Fritz replied.

“No. They still aren’t, but they’ve gotten it into their heads that it’s not their choice to make, and to either leave the matter alone or lose me forever. I’m glad that they want me around enough to make an effort. One of the terms I set for renewing contact was family sessions with that same counselor.” 

(Years later, just a few weeks ago, Dr. Suriyaren has said, “What I’m hearing is that you have clearly established that you don’t need your parents’ approval, but it also sounds like you desperately want it and don’t want them to know that.”)

“Speaking of setting terms, would you be comfortable telling me what your contract with the Agency says you refuse to do?” An overly-loud motorcycle sped by and Fritz huffed in annoyance.

Chev noticed that despite removing the manicure Marie had given them - they still had the pedicure, as it wouldn’t have ruined Chev’s disguise earlier in the week - they’d missed a few bits of purple. They ticked off their stipulations on imperfect fingers. “Won’t kill except in defense of self or someone unable to defend themselves. No missions in which engaging in physical violence is a major component. Will kill animals if and only if needed, but will not torment them. No abductions, not counting spontaneous citizen’s arrests or the equivalent of protective custody. No sex. No harm to homeless people who are not clear and present threats. No framing people for crimes they didn’t do. No stealing life necessities. I also reserve the right to object to deeds not on this list.” Reinette had advised them to add the last bit to reduce the grounds for clients to get cranky later. 

Fritz had finished off the pastry while Chev was talking. “My personal list is not identical to yours, but I find it very respectable.”

“Thanks. I didn’t have to specify no sexually-based crimes, because the Agency already won't do that.”

“There are scenarios in which killing someone is justifiable. There are no scenarios in which raping someone is justifiable,” Fritz agreed. He watched a bird flit past the window. 

Chev’s brain immediately thought of far-fetched scenarios involving sadistic choices. _“We are aliens with bizarre priorities. Do horrendous acts or we will blow up your planet!”_ That was splitting hairs, though. Spirit of the law. “Yeah.”

“Promise me you will not compromise those. Even if you think you must. Stipulations like those, basic, honorable, decent refusals like those, breaking them is most likely a case of the nonexistent fence, understand?” 

“Yes, sir.” The honorific just slipped out. 

Fritz looked into their eyes. “It’s not only an issue of morality. Morality, I find, is a slippery concept, and one that has changed for me over time. I didn’t start with the best foundation. What has not changed is that if you worship only at the altar of But I Must, you will find yourself sacrificing everything on that altar. I regret how much I gave up to that false god.”

The words hung in the air.

They settled like thick snow.

“I promise, sir.”

“It would break my heart to see your promise wasted. In both senses of the word.” Fritz gathered up a few escaped crumbs.

“I hear you did a few good things. Chev said. “I’d enjoy hearing about that as well.”

“Let’s have that palate cleanser first.” Fritz gestured at Chev’s violin case.

Chev put their smartphone on the table first and opened up the file. “My friend Ada, who says she knows you, helped me lower the volume the instrumentals so that I can play as an additional instrument rather than just doing a cover. The lyrics aren’t totally complimentary, just to warn you. I sent them to Francesco and he says you’re not so vain that you won’t appreciate frankness, especially ‘cushioned in allusiveness and allegory’.”

“Sounds like him,” Fritz said, half-smiling. 

“Also I know you have never been an Austrian nobleman during the era of classical music.”

“No, though I suppose I might have been a royal Prussian general.” 

***

Commissioning a Symphony in C  
by Cake

So you’ll be an Austrian nobleman  
Commissioning a Symphony in C  
Which defies all Earthly description  
You’ll be commissioning a Symphony in C  
With money you squeezed from the peasants  
To your nephew, you can give it as a present  
This magnificent Symphony in C  
You’ll be commissioning a Symphony in C

Completely filling the palace concert hall  
It’s warm and gold, and like an oven that’s wide open  
It has a melody both happy and sad  
Built on victorious young triads  
You enter the room with great caution  
Though no one in the hall is even watching  
They are transfixed, they are forgetting just to breathe  
They are so taken by your Symphony in C

You’re sitting there, thinking your thoughts  
They are not about what is, but what is not  
You’re sitting there, breathing in your breath  
You are seldom breathing life, but mostly death  
So you’ll be an Austrian nobleman  
Commissioning a Symphony in C  
Which defies all earthly description  
You’ll be commissioning  
A Symphony  
In C

***

“Rather accurate, all told. I like the bass.”

***

Pierre hadn’t remembered having any dreams since he started on Neuralizine.

He knew this was a dream. It was the living room again, during the party, but almost everyone was silent, even as they went through the same movements Pierre remembered. Including past-Pierre.

Fritz and Friedrich were the only audible members of the party. Their voices faded in and out. Pierre noticed that the fade-outs coincided with past-Pierre getting especially thoroughly kissed, like bent-over-backwards tongue-and-tasting.

Fritz: “...you didn’t have to do that. It’s not like I would have run screaming for the hills. I know these are adults having a good time.”

Friedrich: “Let me worry about you. I know your boyfriend takes good care of you, and professional help seems to have worked wonders. I talked to people who’d worked for your father, back in the day, and I wish I could go back in time and tear that brute limb from limb…”

(fadeout)

Fritz: “To go from near-constant toil and sadness, practically nothing to live for but work, to this in such a short period of time? No, not used to it.”

Friedrich: “There were times work was pretty great, though.”

Fritz: “There were such times. Was it you who sent me flowers that time I was in a faraway hospital? I wasn’t sure if it was you being sentimental or if it was Elisabeth keeping up appearances. I never got around to asking.”

Friedrich: “I did. Did you like them?”

Fritz: “You realize how dangerous that was.”

Friedrich: “Was that a yes or no?”

Fritz: “I liked them so much that I dried a few and used them as bookmarks. I wasn’t in love with you, but to have someone do that for me, you know?”

Friedrich: “I’m really fucking glad you’re not that lonely these days.”

(fadeout)

Friedrich: “Obviously I’m not going to talk about secrets in a crowded room, regardless of language. What do you take me for?”

Fritz: “Someone who’d be loud even in death.”

Friedrich: “Oh haha. Have you talked to Elisabeth at all since your divorce?”

Fritz: “We email from time to time. I’m very grateful that she was there for Mina and Sophia when it counted.”

(fadeout)

Fritz: “...and meanwhile, Emilie’s won some sort of physics prize. Voltaire told me and I sent my congratulations. We recovered from our argument pretty quickly and he agreed that he should stop poking Louis Bourbon with a metaphorical stick.”

Friedrich: “Are Emilie and Voltaire still together?”

Fritz: “I don’t know how his love life works anymore.”

Friedrich: “My treasure over there would love tickets to his current play. Saw him in one of those Try4Bly skits, started looking up clips of his show and so on. I would enjoy going with him. I haven’t been to New York in ages.”

Fritz: “I’ll see what I can do.”

(fadeout)

Friedrich: “Remember that time in Bern after I tucked the rentboy in for some well-earned sleep and then went over to your room?

Fritz: “Yes, though I’m not sure how appropriate this reminiscence is.”

Friedrich: “Only I was wondering if that hotel is still there, and if they ever found the ring I took off my finger because it was making you uncomfortable.”

Fritz: “Let’s stop talking about this.”

Friedrich: “I’m glad for you, and hell knows I’m spoiled for choice these days, but I do miss you sometimes.”

Fritz: “I know, old friend.”

Friedrich: “Shit, what’s wrong with Pierre?”

***

Friedrich was gone when Pierre woke, taking Azor for a brief walk. The note had a comprehensive list of breakfast options and a reminder to check in with Chev, though not to leave until Friedrich returned, please. Also a long, multi-note apology for leaving Pierre's side, but the dog could be put off for no longer and Benjy had to go home hours ago. 

Pierre grabbed his phone from the nightstand and typed, “I think I’ve developed a superpower.”

He felt dizzy and his heart pounded. He promptly deleted it and typed, “When you’re free, come get me and take me home. <3”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END PART ONE
> 
> Chapter 19 will be set the following May.
> 
> P.S. "My treasure" is a literal translation of "Mein Schatz".


	19. where's your mother?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by the letter K.
> 
> And also me distracting myself from temporary illness and pain.

May 27, 2017

***

Chev still had one final exam, and needed to look over their final draft of their last final project before finalizing it and being finally, finally done with college, done with college holy shit. Then a week till the ceremony, and then handful of days until the summer job they had gone through Hell and back for. They were very glad that their college ended the Spring semester earlier than many others did, for the express purpose of facilitating summer jobs. 

Pierre was done with all his exams and projects. Junior Year nicely wrapped up in a bag. Nothing to do but take his slightly shell-shocked ease today, wrap up his affairs over the next few days, fly to France, and turn 21 with his loving family on a sunny island beach. He and Chev would be able to meet up at the ancestral Lafayette chateau for one weekend in July, and in Paris in August right after Chev’s contract ended, and fly back home together. 

As one of those people who got a remarkable amount of stress-housework and stress-cooking/baking done during Finals Week, Chev had secretly made a lavish celebratory picnic dinner to ambush Pierre with that evening. There was a quiet grove near Pierre’s apartment awash with fireflies this time of year. They knew Pierre had already had a celebratory lunch with a bunch of fellow Linguistics majors and minors. Pierre was under the impression that he and Chev were having Netflix and pizza. 

Then Pierre let themself into Pierre’s apartment, as per texted instructions and the spare key they’d had for months, and found Pierre in a ball on the floor. Clutching his phone. Most of his possessions, as with Chev’s, were boxed up and ready to be put in storage for the summer. The effect was of a foundling in a warehouse.

Chev put the basket and their purse down immediately and rushed to him. “Pierre? Minibon?”

Quietly, Pierre said, “Sorry to scare you. I called my mother with the news that I’m done, everything turned in. So she said that she and my father have been in the process of what I gather is quite a messy divorce for, I dunno, months now, but they’ve kept it from me for fear that the stress would make it hard for me to concentrate.”

“What.”

“She’s trying to convince me to spend the summer with just her and her side of the family, and not see the other side of my family. He wants the same thing, reversed. I’m not going to be a board game piece. I told her to return my plane tickets and I told her, then called him to tell him, that don’t want to see either of them for awhile.”

Chev squeezed his arm. “Motion that I cuddle you on the bed?” 

“Motion seconded.” Pierre sat up.

“Let me stick some stuff in the fridge. Want anything?”

“Nothing that can be found in my kitchen.”

Soon Chev and Pierre were “braiding”, lying on their sides facing each other, limbs interlaced. They both preferred being little spoons, so they used this position more often so nobody would be sacrificing anything. 

“If I were my parents, I might have done that too,” Pierre said. His eyes were shadowed from exhaustion to the point where it almost looked like an incomplete makeup attempt.

“What, kept stuff back?”

“To not worry others, yeah.”

“I’d rather you didn’t do that to me.” 

Pierre kissed Chev. “I know.”

Chev didn’t ask for more. They didn’t feel like adding hypocrisy to their sins of the month. The week before last they’d broken into a house and stolen some dude’s trophy for winning a marathon. That was the initiation ritual to end their time as a part-time member of the Agency. The ritual had been early enough to give Chev time to study. Reinette had similar accommodations. Chev might still be somewhat of a trainee after they got back from France, but they’d be full-time. 

Returning the trophy had been optional. As a compromise between honor and pragmatism, Chev stuck it in a Lost and Found bin at a local rec center. His name was engraved on it. Shouldn’t be too tricky. 

“At least I can be here for your and Reinette’s graduation,” Pierre continued.

“If you don’t mind standing for two hours in the hot sun waiting to find out if they’ll respond to my multiple reminders that Charles-Genevieve is a compound first name, not a first and middle name.” Middle names didn’t get read aloud. 

“I want to give you flowers after.”

Chev smiled. “I’m sold. Do you think you can cope with meeting my parents?”

“Chevy, I’ve wanted to meet your parents. They’ve wanted to meet me. The only reason we haven’t…”

“Is because I haven’t been ready. I know. It’s a good a time as any, I guess.” They brushed Pierre’s hair out of his eyes. “You should talk to the...hey, I keep forgetting to ask: when I want to refer to both of them without just saying both their first names, is it ‘the Lafayettes’? Or what?”

“They’ll answer to ‘the de Lafayettes’, ‘the du Motiers’, and ‘Ms. Noailles and her husband’.” Adrienne used ‘Ms. Adrienne Noailles’ when she wanted to be treated like a normal, independent person rather than part of a highly collectible expansion pack.

“I’m sure they still want to see you.”

“Mm.” Pierre abruptly reached up to repeatedly tug at a corner of the pillowcase. He could sometimes go a full day without any physical tics now, but the researchers said that if they’d persisted into adulthood, they were unlikely to ever go away completely. Neuralizine focused on his language abilities. Anything else was a byproduct.

“I made us dinner, but it can wait.” Chev could wait for if Pierre wanted to discuss the new revelation any further, too.

“I bought us cupcakes. I know you’re all about eating healthy these days -”

“Shh, no, it’s perfect.”

Pierre smiled for a second before it faded. “I can only remember one time I was seriously angry at them, and I was five, and they’ve spent all the years since making up for it.”

“What’d they do?”

“Yelled at me for knocking stuff over in a shop with repeated strange movements, and for ‘being silly’ and repeating after them instead of answering properly. It wasn’t the first time, but it’s the time I remember, because I grabbed Maman’s coat and screamed, ‘HELP ME! I HATE IT!’ In French, of course. Didn’t speak English yet.” 

Chev imagined a tiny Pierre being that miserable. They didn’t like it.

Pierre turned his head to stare at the ceiling rather than look at Chev’s face. “It’s funny - you hated that your parents kept taking you to doctors, and it was incredibly liberating the first time someone told you there was nothing wrong with you. I rejoiced when they took me to one and she said there was something wrong with me. I managed to get a bit of therapy - taught me how to channel tics, how to deal with the frustration - that made it not as awful as it would have been otherwise when we moved to the U.S. Fortunately learning English was really exciting. Helped make up for the stress of everything else. I remember being fascinated by the frequency of the letter K.”

“Aww. Seriously, awwww.”

Pierre turned to face Chev again. “What’d you make?”

“I made shepherd’s pie. Had potatoes that were starting to sprout. Ready to try it?”

“K.”

***

“How long will you be able to go between doses of your new medication?” Lafayette asked on the other side of the screen. Less worried about forgetting his English than Adrienne was, over eighty percent of his conversation with Pierre was in French. 

He was sprawled on a bed, wearing comfortable clothing in all black. His beloved grandmother had died peacefully after long illness back in February, and the grief had been deep but straightforward. His estranged mother had died of a grisly mixed-drug overdose three weeks ago, and the grief was shallow in a way that had seriously messed with his head, to the point where Adrienne had dragged him to counseling.

“Two months now,” Pierre said. “We videoconference about my progress every week. I’m due for a dose the day after tomorrow.”

“Stay with us at least one month. Please.”

“Really?”

“At least.”

“I’ll be fine, I’ve got lots of contingency plans. I know you’re busy.”

“Adrienne wants you here. I need you here. We can pay your travel expenses.”

Pierre thought about refusing, but his parents weren’t willing to pay for travel that wasn’t with them, and he’d never had a job aside from unpaid internships. He had a small trust fund courtesy of a late aunt who’d had no kids of her own. It was just about enough to carefully live on for two years maximum, though careful investment was slowly ticking up the theoretical duration. He didn’t want to squander it. He might need it for when he was in graduate school. The Neuralizine payouts were a safety net for his grad school tuition if he couldn't get as much scholarship or grant money as he was banking on. He was grateful he had no loans so far, but Bank of Family wasn't inexhaustible.

Briefly switching to English so the joke would make sense, Pierre said, “Got a taste of normal parenthood and want to try being sugar parents, huh? I see how it is.”

Lafayette laughed. “I prefer to think of your presence as being therapeutic, but if you want to go that route, I’ll dig up jewels to drape over you or whatever the procedure is. Seriously, you are also our friend.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I know Chev is very private, but if you and they are amenable, they can watch. We’ll provide them with wine and cheese and a good seat.”

“They like rosé, all kinds, and gouda with pears.”

“...How is it that you know that?”

“We thought you might make the offer.” The days of voyeurism accompanied by Cheetos were behind them now. 

Adrienne entered the frame. She wore white as well as black. “You made Gilbert laugh. You definitely need to come here.”

“Will you let me leave again?”

“Chev will probably figure out how to undo the straps,” she said with mock-regret. “Speaking of which, send us your current measurements.”

“And you will meet our daughter! You must meet her. She’s been slow to crawl and babble, but she’s starting to. Adrienne’s been advised not to wean her just yet.”

“I wish she’d be equally hesitant to develop teeth just yet.”

Lafayette put an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “You’re the one who insists on not switching to bottles.”

“Pumps perturb me.”

“It’s nice to know I have all this banter to look forward to,” Pierre teased. 

“I’m sure there will be times you can enjoy the grounds. And the nearby city.” Lafayette leaned in and added, with velvety softness, “when we decide to let you out of bed.”

It was over-the-top and unoriginal, but Pierre made a weak noise anyway. 

Adrienne started unbuttoning her silky pajama shirt. “Color?” she said casually.

“Green.” This wasn’t the first time, but it had been a long time. Especially when it came to having Skype sex with both at once.

She took the laptop from her husband’s lap and placed it on the bed itself, angled for a good view for Pierre. She traced her index finger along his jawline. He melted backwards and bared this throat. She hummed, pleased. “Neither of you will touch yourself unless I say so.”

***

The lobby of the tattoo shop was empty when Chev arrived, so Chev amused themself looking at the sample designs. Fortunately the person who eventually emerged was the very person Chev wanted to see.

“Barry! Brisk business?”

James Barry leaned over the counter and gave Chev one of those bromantic handshake half-hugs. “The usual rush of graduates who wanna celebrate, a lot of who will pitch fits when they realize all of us are booked through June. You’re not one of them, I hope.”

“I do want to celebrate, but one of the things I’m celebrating is getting a job near here, so I’m happy for an appointment in August when I get back from teaching fencing at a summer camp.”

“Good for you. We’re having a twenty percent off special in October for chest tattoos for anyone who’s had a mastectomy or reduction for medical reasons. Including dysphoria, fyi. Breast cancer awareness campaigning sometimes makes it sound way too much like it’s priority to save the tits and the human’s an afterthought.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, thanks. Would it be possible to fill in my scar with something similar enough to my skin tone that on casual glance it looked more like a tan line? Or just didn’t jump out at you? I don’t expect you to make it vanish.” Chev held out their wrist. It’d be a help for undercover work to have it be less noticeable. It’d also help when Chev was alone and certain walls not holding memories back as well.

“May I?” Barry took Chev’s hand and twisted it around to examine the wrist scar. “I’ll need time to figure out the color mix. Enough that I need a deposit.”

“I expected that.”

“Will need to take photos.” Barry let go. “Are you still doing filthy things to some of my handiwork?”

Chev smirked. “Yup. Especially the one on Pierre’s thigh. The little bird on his shoulder is always a nice garnish, too.”

Barry gave a thumbs-up. “Hey, the trans* support group misses you.”

“Aw, thanks. Give them my regards. Just so busy these days, you know?” Chev decided to ask Pierre if Barry could come to their housewarming party in the fall.

“So it goes. I’ve got a moment before the next pincushion gets here. Let me get my camera.”

***

Languages Pierre could comprehend pre-Neuralizine: French, English, Vietnamese, Mandarin.

Additional languages Pierre could comprehend now: German, Spanish, and Italian. The last had happened when Fritz, Francesco had invited him and Friendrich on a double date to watch a cheap, but good, student performance of Don Giovanni. 

As the treatment continued it had become less painful, and the night terrors were down to once a week or so, randomly distributed. It seemed for that him to become a fluent listener “effortlessly”, the language had to be in the same family as one he already knew. With the Hindi, Arabic, and Korean spoken by some of the student body, he’d absorbed scraps. Maybe if he made an effort it’d be more, but he didn’t.

People Pierre had informed: 0.

He’d gone on Neuralizine to become more normal. His careful questioning had revealed that his side effects were unique. He didn’t want to be made a big deal of - or even worse, cut off for throwing off the curve, and having to go back to the way he was. He didn’t care if this was selfish or reckless. And he didn’t want to argue about this with well-meaning loved ones. He knew it was unrealistic to think he could keep this to himself forever. But…

People Pierre planned on informing anytime soon: ?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Du Ponceau's account of being fascinated by the letter K was so adorable I had to put it somewhere.
> 
> I like to imagine the first time someone offered Chev the choice of white or red wine, and they said, "Pink. I want pink wine."
> 
> Refresher: James Miranda Barry was an accomplished doctor of English birth who later went to live in South Africa. He was the first white person to perform a C-section on the African continent in which both mother and child lived (evidence suggests ancient Africans had previously done so), and also campaigned for the army to eat more pears to prevent scurvy. He was discovered on autopsy and through scrutiny of records to have been DFAB. Whether he would have presented as male in a time and place where women could be doctors, we don't know for sure, but regardless, here's to you, Doctor Barry.


	20. you say a brother don't matter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> psst, to the Byron fan among us, I snuck in some more tributes for you
> 
> Warnings for passing mentions of emotional and sexual abuse, including to a minor, and a despicable though empty threat.

Mx. Cavalier,

I was told you were having a final farewell party with your college’s fencing club. I wanted to get this to you quickly yet out of the grasp of the technologically resourceful. Hence why R. has handed this to you.

It’s come to my attention that before he finished graduate school in America, the current Marquis de Lafayette met you several times in fencing tournaments, and spoke up in favor of your request to not be required to reveal your physical sex. Are you in contact? Do you think that while you are in France you would be capable of arranging a meeting? I need you to pass on a few messages and also report back on his apparent state of mind. Direct communication between him and myself would definitely spook him and might possibly make things worse. Someone he met at school wanting to visit wouldn’t be suspicious. 

You may have heard that Maximilien Robespierre, of the extremist Jacobin Party, vowed when ascending from local politics and running for the National Assembly that he was to eliminate organized crime in France by any means necessary, including “certain sacrifices for the sake of our liberty from their silent tyranny”. This Lafayette has never committed a crime, but his family fortune did not all come cleanly, which Robespierre has been trying to exploit. Especially now that he is the last of his father’s direct heirs still living, and he will have learned new things. Some of the dirt traces back to history that also traces back to me. Lafayette has number of pressure points, and would make an ideal blackmail victim, scapegoat, and reluctant informant. This is contrary to my interests, and would be a shame for a nice young man with a nice young family. 

While you’re at it, drop in on 16 and say hello. He’s met you and finds you only slightly threatening. Report on him as well. He’s never honest with me. 

There might also be something about sticking a harmless surveillance device on the Eiffel Tower. Prof. Analytical is working on it. He keeps burbling on about resonance. 

Directions forthcoming as the time draws nearer. 

If you tell anyone of this, I will make sure that the nude photos of you found on Guerchy’s hard drive end up being the newest viral sensation. 

15

***

Chev dutifully tore up the letter into bitty shreds and Reinette flushed them down the toilet. “Does he ever change up his threats?”

“What, was it the revenge porn bluff?” She looked as tired as Chev felt. She’d finished the last of her exams the previous night and woken up very late, to find her whatever-they-were and her wife having tea in the sunroom. He’d handed the letter to her, bowed to Marie, and whirled off.

“Yeah.” Chev had checked with Louie Pontiere via their occasional letters, and he said Claude had mentioned at that in a fit of anger he’d destroyed all the images he’d pressured his live-in homeless teen to pose for. 

(Chev had confirmed this being a bluff by gasping, “Even the one with the cucumber that he promised he’d delete?” Mr. 15 had grimly nodded. There wasn’t one.)

Reinette facepalmed. “I’m sorry he’s so crass. He only really means it when he threatens to take stuff out of your next paycheck, or to report you to the cops. Or lock you in that spare room for a bit. All of which are for screwing up pretty bad.”

Chev had never been threatened with something that might be carried out. Mr. 15 sometimes threatened to have Chev’s pets killed. Pets Chev didn’t have - unless you counted collared Pierre being a good boy - and according to Reinette, Mr. 15 only knew that Chev wasn’t single, nothing more. “I don’t judge you, but he’s not the most lovable. Though he seems to be much better with you ladies.”

She sighed. “I think of myself as a sensible wolf handler. I feel bonded to the wolf. I understand the wolf. I defend the wolf. I care for the wolf. I will also never forget that the wolf is not a dog. I will do my best to keep him from biting, but I won’t try to change him. Are you going to do whatever that’s about?” 

Chev managed not to crack a smile. “Tell him yes, it’ll be hard, but I think I can manage it. Hopefully.” Time to call Agent Armistead, too. This had to be what he was talking about in January. 

Marie knocked on the bathroom door. “When you’re done being clandestine, let’s go for a walk. It’s an appropriate temperature and barometric pressure to go for walks, and my Fitbit wants more steps from me.”

Chev had some time to kill until Ada and Pierre were done hanging out. They avoided spending much time with both at once, for fear of letting something slip, and anyway those two had a brand of geekery that was rather opaque, at most translucent, to them. Besides, they’d been neglecting Marie. 

***

“My apartment is in pathetic state for entertaining,” Pierre apologized.

Ada finished setting up her laptop on his desk, plugged in and connected to wi-fi. They would be able to see it while sitting in a pillow nest on his bed. “This is all we need. That and snacks.”

Pierre held aloft his canister of wasabi peas and her bowl of kettle corn. 

“Perfect. I promise, nothing is better for your current swirl of badassery, angst, and absurd melodrama than a Torchwood marathon.” She’d found out during one of their many online conversations that he liked Doctor Who but had never gotten around to watching the Torchwood spinoff, and when she found out that he was dealing with triumph and disaster simultaneously, she insisted on driving up for this express purpose. She was also going to spend the night with some friends not far from here, though, so he didn’t need to feel guilty.

She had a loose t-shirt on that said “Too late for tall ships, too early for starships”, with juxtaposed images of both. She looked like she’d rolled out of bed and blindly reached for clean clothes, yet her hair was in dark silky ringlets and she wore matte plum lipstick. It shouldn’t have worked. It did.

“I wish I had a congratulatory gift for you for finishing your Comp Sci Master’s,” Pierre said. 

Both she and Charles had decided not to go for Ph.D’s just yet. Charles was adamant that he would as soon as his “oncoming baby” was in preschool. Georgiana wasn’t at a good time to pause her career, so he was going to be the stay-at-home parent while working on freelance projects. Ada was going to do some projects with him, and some without him. Maybe contract work, too. Nothing too structured for at least a year. She also planned to pursue a longtime wish and go visit her father’s grave in Greece, and the animal sanctuary he’d founded there. If he had to die younger than 40 of Hepatitis B complications (he’d called his ex-wife and made sure she and Ada got tested, and swore it was needle-sharing rather than unsafe sex), he wanted to die in the country he’d become infatuated with. 

Pierre almost hadn’t wanted to tell Ada about his parents’ divorce, given that the circumstances of her parents’ divorce had sent ripples through every major paper’s Arts section and had the National Public Radio crowd clutching at their reading glasses. It was spectacular enough to make “Lord” Byron the first poet/novelist to make it into the tabloids. He didn’t know how he’d handle it if his father had emotionally abused his mother but loved him, if he’d both yearned to know him and feared inheriting the wrong traits, if his father were fascinating and appalling and too much, if mental illness and substance abuse had mixed with genius and passion in a way a child could never understand. And if his father had died too young for answers.

Then, on the tenth anniversary of his death she’d dealt with a PBS documentary broadcasting very painful things: her dad had been born to wealth but with a deformed foot, had an affair with a teenage boy during his travels (of legal age there, but not everywhere), struggled with anorexia, maintained a convoluted relationship with the Shelleys and their kin, checked into rehab and psych wards multiple times, and been molested as a child by his mother’s boyfriend. Though Ada’s mother had successfully lobbied for Ada’s existence being an anonymous footnote amounting to: “...and one surviving child of the two born in wedlock.” That and the different surnames and skin tones usually worked. Pierre watched the documentary so he’d be less likely to trigger Ada - okay, morbid curiosity had figured in - and he watched it through his fingers. 

(He’d read some of the writing itself. It was stellar. Transcendent. The world’s first rockstar poet, indeed.)

Ada’s smile had none of the weight of Pierre’s thoughts. “You can get me something in France.” She sat next to him with her legs sprawled out and clicked the remote.

“Wait. You’re using a normal TV remote on a laptop.”

“Charles pimps out his electronics, and once he’s successful he asks if I want to be the second trial. Usually I do. Georgiana prefers being at least the dozenth trial.” Ada selected closed captions so they could chat without missing anything. She started the show.

After the first sweeping shot of the Cardiff skyline, Pierre said, “I admire that they set this where it’s filmed. Chev’s favorite movie is set in a place called Grosse Pointe, Michigan, but there are obvious palm trees.”

She grinned. “The one about the sensitive hitman attending his tenth high school reunion and reconnecting with his sweetheart while, like, six people are out to get him? They recced it to me once on tumblr.” Chev had a little-used tumblr for following friends, along with reblogging fencing memes and DIY fashion tutorials they never got around to trying. Ada had a something on everything.

“Mmhmm.” Pierre stuffed a handful of wasabi peas in his mouth, hating and adoring the burning sting at the same time.

They made it through the first episode, had a mutual break for bathroom and sandwiches, and started the next one.

“Okay, by this point I think the Welsh tourism board paid them for every skyline shot,” Pierre said.

“Ianto Jones might as well be named Welshy Mc Welsh.”

“Shouldn’t it be Welshy y Welsh, or along those lines?” Pierre didn’t know that much about the language, other than it being Celtic (?), an inspiration for Elvish, and having seen a joke about Gaelic stealing half the vowels. He would rectify this later. 

“Touché.”

This episode was super cheesy and they had fun heckling it. Then everyone starting gawping at Gwen making out with a female-presenting alien, and Captain Jack said something about “You 21st century humans and your quaint little categories”. Pierre took it as a sign.

“Hey Ada?”

She’d gotten through her sandwich and was now delicately nibbling at the remains of her popcorn, kernel by kernel. “Yes?”

“I think I’m not homoromantic. I think I’m panromantic, to go with the pansexual, after all.”

“I figured your utter devotion to Chev might eventually lead you to that conclusion.”

Pierre’s toes twitched. Tic or nerves? “Also I think I’m a bit in love with, uh, you?”

Pausing the show first, Ada turned to look at him properly. “I’m honored.”

The room felt stifling all of a sudden. “You don’t feel that way, I take it.”

“No, but I’m not being glib, I promise. I know just because you love widely, it doesn’t mean you love shallowly.”

“Thanks.” He let his brain whir for a moment. “Have I made you uncomfortable?”

“Not unless you’re going to go all ‘Nice Guy’ on me.” She stuck the whole kernel in her mouth just to do the air quotes. 

“Geeky women get that a lot, I’ve heard.”

“We do. Charles finds the concept baffling, thankfully. Do you want us to change what we’re doing right now? This second as well as in general friendship?”

To his relief, Pierre realized he didn’t, and that the stifling feeling had passed. “No. It’s just that the last time I dithered about telling someone something like this, they got kidnapped less than two weeks later and I was really glad I’d said something.”

Ada twisted around to hug him. “You’re a bae and you deserve the people who love you the way you love them. More alien sex-monster?”

“Yes please. Though if I may ask…”

“You want to know my orientation.”

“Curious, but not demanding. Chev has spent so much time figuring out their gender, they never bothered to puzzle out their sexuality.” Pierre knew they’d had a girlfriend when attending an all-girls’ school, and that they still didn’t know how much of it had been situational. Which was fine.

“I’m not offended by the question, but I think you’ll understand that when your dad’s been the subject of essays on how much his mania-laced bisexuality with elements of pederasty affected his work, and whether the latter had anything to do with trauma and/or an obsession with Greek history, you might want to keep your own details quiet.”

“Holy shit, yeah, I’d bolt my closet door shut even if I was so straight I had trouble turning corners.”

This made them both dissolve into laughter. Pierre felt brave enough to lean his head against her shoulder, and they went back to the alien-wrangling. 

***

chevy-to-the-levee: I know it’s been awhile, Lafayette, but I saw you were online.

vivéLancelot: so I am. How are you? We must rearrange the details of your visit now that we have rearranged the details of our boy’s. 

chevy-to-the-levee: You’re giving him back, you know.

vivéLancelot: :3

chevy-to-the-levee: I got an anon ask on my tumblr, guy said he was a friend of yours named James. I’ve mentioned on there that you owe me a rematch. just wanted to check he wasn’t lying. I imagine you get opportunists. 

vivéLancelot: Very good of you, for yes, we do. I have a dear friend named James Armistead, perhaps that was him.

chevy-to-the-levee: He said he was in New York City for a while but moved back to VA recently.

vivéLancelot: Yes! I haven’t spoken to him in at least six months. I must get in contact soon. I’ve been so busy. He’s such a wonderful guy. 

chevy-to-the-levee: I think he’ll understand, what with all the family stuff. My condolences by the way.

vivéLancelot: Thank you. 

….

....

chevy-to-the-levee: You still there?

vivéLancelot: I must cut this short because Henriette has a new physical therapy routine, and I want to learn how to do it on days the nurse has off. Adrienne shouldn’t have to do all the work.

chevy-to-the-levee: You’re a good dad. 

vivéLancelot: till we meet again, friend. Talk to James for me. Tell him you’ll be visiting me!

chevy-to-the-levee: I certainly will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real Lafayette had a tough time when he got back to France. Don't look at me like that.
> 
> Ada's shirt is based on a real one, which is official merch for the webcomic Dinosaur Comics.
> 
> I want more narratives in which unrequited love isn't ANGST AND WOE. Of course it helps that Pierre doesn't have all his eggs in one basket. I interpret real du Ponceau as being someone who would have identified as bi or pan in our sexuality paradigm, though he seems to have lived the pattern of "older male lover/mentor while young, then grows up to have a wife and kids", common in the glory days of Athens. He mentions loving Greek philosophy and texts, and the concept would have been taboo but familiar. (Incidentally, queer historical fiction author Mary Renault wrote amazing books about ancient Greece. 10/10 rec.)
> 
> Almost everything I wrote about Byron is true, though I turned his exotic pet habit into an interest more suited to modern sensibilities. He died of incompetent doctors bleeding him with dirty instruments for a fever that probably wouldn't have killed him on its own, so I decided to update it with something more likely for today, and also a bit "rockstar". 
> 
> I haven't pinned down exactly what Henriette has, but it is most likely one of the milder variants of cerebral palsy. However, she's not going to die, and she's still going to have a joyous life.


	21. take all you can fit in your arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fifth and final section contains a non-graphic description of a medical procedure involving restraints and a needle. It's ethical and involves a willing and well-compensated test subject.

Inventory of Supplies To Be Provided to Mx. Cavalier:

  1. Scanner for electronic surveillance devices


  1. Imitation cigarettes (containing no nicotine)


  1. Alternate passport, sex listed as F, name listed as Genevieve Charles-Beaumont, matching photo


  1. In-house cipher fluency practice, placed inside a book of normal logic puzzles and made to look like all the other pages


  1. Thin, durable, slim-cut water-resistant gloves


  1. International driver’s license


  1. 2 sealed envelopes with sensitive contents: 1 is book-ciphered, 1 is otherwise encrypted


  1. Copy of cyberpunk novel _Snow Crash,_ for the book cipher


  1. Copy of humorous essay collection _I Was Told There’d Be Cake_ as a decoy, and for morale


  1. Miniature passive surveillance device disassembled and packaged in a box that proclaims it to be an off-brand digital speaker for smartphones. Reassembling instructions folded inside the box, written in three languages and with misleading diagrams for authenticity. Correct directions require mixing and matching the English and French sections, alternating words, then correcting the grammar. Appropriate glue to bond to metal also included. DO NOT UNCAP PREMATURELY.


  1. Appropriate quantity of Euros for transportation and other foreseeable work-related costs


  1. An issue of _Poker Champions Monthly_


  1. Apology note for a recent unseemly threat that failed to consider intersectionality


  1. Set of lockpicks disguised as manicure kit 



 

***

“Why are you showing me this now?” Chev asked. Some of the items were obvious to them, and others weren’t, but this wasn’t the time to ask. 

They grumbled internally at the imposition of #4, though they knew it’d be good for them. The cipher they were supposed to practice decoding during downtime on their trip was pretty complicated, at least by Chev’s newbie standards. Apparently it was one Friedrich had contributed to the Agency, but Mr. 15 continued to have the agents use it because of its efficiency and adaptability to many different languages. Chev supposed Mr. 15 and Friedrich had enough dirt on each other for mutually assured destruction. 

Reinette took the list back, crumpled it up, and jammed it inside her disposable bowl full of melted sweetness. She poured the dregs of her lemonade over it, wedged the cup inside the bowl, then pushed it deep into the trash can, covering it with several other people’s discarded cups that were littering this quiet corner of the banquet hall. “So you can plan out your suitcase. And your summer. Isn’t it fun?”

“It is.” Chev licked the last bit of lime sherbert off their plastic spoon. “Well, Ms. Moneypenny, thanks for item #13.”

She didn’t bother denying it. “If he’s going to consider your unique qualities an asset, he needs to not weaponize them against you. It doesn’t matter if it’s fake. He honestly forgot that it’s different and worse than it would be for a cis woman, not that that would be okay either. He won’t forget again. As I’ve said, I’m not a nice person, not except to a few, but I call him out on his unproductive and excessive bullshit.”

“Niceness is for Marie and Pierre, otherwise they wouldn’t want us, and nastiness is for us, to protect them and each other.” They smiled crookedly and linked arms with her. She wouldn’t protect them from being punished like any other agent if they messed up, but it was valuable that she was so fiercely against exploitation of their vulnerabilities. 

“We’re not at a fancy ball, you know.” Reinette eyes crinkled with amusement, and she took the lead. “This is the Dead Week ice cream social.”

“We are, because you’re here. Uncrowned queen.”

 

***

“Why is it called ‘Dead Week’?” Dr. Chovet asked.

By now Pierre had gotten comfortable with Dr. Chovet’s pre-injection interviews, which were both to gauge Pierre’s general well-being and to analyze how he currently spoke. It wasn’t weird anymore that Dr. Chovet’s research assistant, a Ph.D candidate he’d only heard called Anna, was transcribing an anonymized version of everything he said. 

“Only the seniors and their handlers are there, you see. Otherwise the campus is dead.”

Dr. Chovet chuckled at the word choice of “handlers”. Suddenly Pierre missed his father very badly. The neat beard and horn-rimmed glasses made it worse. Pierre fiddled with his own glasses just to have something to do with his hands.

The interview room reminded Pierre of a therapist’s office. Sofa, armchairs, potted plants, soft lighting. To relax the participant before the next part. Dr. Chovet always said “participant”, not “subject”, no matter what actually went into the reports. 

“We appreciate how detailed your journal and sleep log continue to be, and that you followed instructions to get no less than five hours of sleep a night during your finals. This past week another participant didn’t follow these instructions and started having vivid hallucinations after thirty-two hours awake, which is a much lower threshold than most people.”

Pierre raised his eyebrows. “Eep. I’m glad I adjust quickly to jet lag.”

“You can take melatonin on a short-term basis if needed, to help with jet lag. How would you compare the stress of your parents’ divorce to the stress of finals?”

“Much worse, because I know how to deal with academic stress. But, uh…” Pierre blushed slightly. “Instead of spending the summer with my parents, I’m going to spend it with friends. They’re married to each other. They know about the study and will be supportive.”

“That’s wonderful. We’ll need additional emergency contact information, in that case. You can fill out the form during the post-dose waiting period.” The pattern was interview first, then basic vitals, then injection, then half an hour of resting quietly, then another set of vitals, then a receipt that another sum of money had been deposited to Pierre’s bank account. 

After Pierre had thrown up at the pantsless party, his various nearby friends and partners had banded together to make sure someone could drive him to and from Neuralizine appointments. Pierre didn’t fight too hard for the right to use public transport when he was feeling wobbly. It was better than them all deciding it was taking too much of a toll on him. It was Friedrich’s turn this time. He was in the waiting room, knitting incongruously adorable mittens for Will. 

Pierre wasn’t ashamed of his love life, but it was odd to share it under these circumstances. He only did because it was relevant to his mental state, chemicals in his brain, things like that. Besides, he knew he was doing the researchers a disservice by saying nothing about his magical new language powers, so he felt like he owed them detail on another aspect. The blushing intensified. “Um, I - you might need to know that I’m going to have a tremendous amount of sex with them.”

Dr. Chovet was unruffled. He probably heard all sorts of weird things. “More so than your usual routine?”

“Yes." Pierre buried his face in his hands. It was a squirmy, yet oddly nice embarrassment that he hate-loved, like being bound in an undignified position and placed on Friedrich’s dining table. That time was just for decoration, though there were ongoing casual discussions of the logistics of him being used as a serving platter at some point. Maybe when Benjy was there, though Pierre had refused to consider Will.

“Are you alright?”

"And I'm going to save myself for them., you could say." That wasn't strictly accurate, but accuracy approached TMI. He'd promised that from now until he saw them not to climax, but also that he wouldn't be abstinent during that time. He could come once on his birthday. Chev and Friedrich had likewise promised that they would play with him exactly as much as they would have otherwise, except for the part where he was given assistance in coming. Accidentally coming untouched didn’t count. Obviously he wasn’t “allowed” to touch himself. In reality nobody would be upset of Pierre backed out of the agreement, but he wanted to try. It wasn’t like he could buy Lafayette and Adrienne something they couldn’t buy for themselves, and they were so enthusiastic about this as a gift.

Anna cleared her throat. “How about I simply write that you anticipate just over a week of reduced sexual activity from your baseline, followed by weeks of more than usual?” 

“I think that will serve for our purposes.” Dr. Chovet smiled at Pierre kindly. 

“Thank you,” Pierre said. “Have you heard of any other new side effects from other participants?”

“Nothing. Let me reiterate that we’re very pleased with your progress.”

 

***

Jeanne poked Chev. “Sorry to wake you from your nap after the clearly exhausting business of eating ice cream and listening to speeches, but you’re lying on our living room couch whimpering. It’s worrying. Plus I have people coming over.”

Chev blinked and resurfaced to reality. Sometimes they regretted asking Ada to find them the transcript of Claude’s trial. She hadn’t been able to read it, and she’d been decent enough to not try to translate it. The knowledge that Claude had been ready to betray Louie and lock both him and Chev in his basement for...stereotypical...purposes had fed a lot of nightmares.

“Sorry, I’ll go hole up in my room.”

“Would seeing your boyfriend help?” Jeanne asked, tidying the couch cushions even though Chev was still lying down. “You didn’t sound great.”

“He’s got a doctor’s appointment. Oh, you might want to tell your guests that the Tupperware full of iced sugar cookies with my name on it has trace amounts of arsenic in certain cookies, and I don’t know which yet.”

Shaka wanted his congratulatory gift to Chev to be instructive as well as mostly delicious. He’d informed Chev that there wasn’t enough, cumulatively, to kill even a child, but that the goal was for Chev to discern which cookies not to eat without resorting to the hard way.  _ “I suppose you could choose to eat none of the cookies, but I would hope you not to be such an ungrateful spoilsport. Especially when I went to all the trouble of buying sprinkles in your school colors.” _

She snorted. “I never know what to believe of what comes out of your mouth. I’ll tell them to leave your weird food alone.”

“Especially the cookies, Jeanne, I’m trying to be open and honest with you here.”

“Get up, I think the remote control is under your behind.”

 

***

When they moved onto checking his vitals, everything was normal. There was an additional medical person of some kind helping Dr. Chovet, but they kept changing from session to session and Pierre never learned their names. Anna took notes.

Pierre had never had a medical or dental kink per se. But when he was a kid, in him had awoken the fuzzy, quiet feeling of someone who knew better than him telling him to keep still, and not being expected to understand everything. He let that feeling envelope him as he was guided to the long bench that would brace his head as he lay facedown. The fastening of straps that would keep his brief convulsions from hurting him or making him fall off. 

He still cried out when the needle plunged into his spine, though. To prevent drug interactions and the compromising the data, they couldn’t give him anesthetic. Thankfully the really painful part was over in five seconds. The thirty-or-so seconds of what would have been flailing afterwards didn’t hurt, thanks to them keeping him still. 

As usual for him, and as not unusual for everyone, Pierre was mute for roughly the first twenty or so minutes after being let out. Recalibration. He was guided to a cot and provided a blanket and a bottle of water, and he silently worked on a set of loom band bracelets for Lafayette and Adrienne. To make the designs more intricate he’d gone to the trouble of bringing his little loom rather than just doing it by hand. He’d already finished patriotically-colored ones for both. He was now making them a set for Gryffindor. If he finished them he’d make Lafayette a bonus bi pride. Lafayette was actually bisexual heteromantic, but it was hard to express that in silicone color combinations, and this was mostly to keep him nonverbally busy. 

Thirty minutes passed, and Pierre heard, “Are you ready for the next part?

“Yes,” Pierre said, the word strangely weighted on his tongue.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Anna the assistant is my tribute to du Ponceau's granddaughter Anna, who was largely responsible for his autobiography being longer than a few letters to a friend. Her constant urging for him to share more about his life, and later hard work in taking dictation from him when his health started to fail and she was his caretaker, was a gift to more than just him. Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?
> 
> * Shaka Zulu was a great leader in battle, but after he'd reached the top he became more and more erratic until he was eventually assassinated by his half-brothers. When his mother died, for example, he insisted that all cows with calves be slaughtered so that the calves could feel his pain, and outlawed humans becoming pregnant until the mourning period was over. I DON'T HAVE A MOM, NOBODY GETS A MOM. My version is not to that point, but I'm trying to give him a light flavor of that sort of behavior while still keeping him on the side of our protagonists.
> 
> * I get annoyed at how bad both evil and good comic book scientists are at following the scientific method and basic safety procedures, so here's my little Take That. My writing might not be fully rigorous, but I strive to make it not ludicrous.


	22. you're older, you're bolder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We've passed 21 chapters and Pierre has passed 21 years!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out fightbackfic.tumblr.com, where I am one of the authors offering fic for charity!

From Lafayette and Adrienne, via a florist: Twenty-one roses, twenty with yellow petals with red edges. One was red and black and the thorns hadn't been removed.

John Laurens and his sister Martha: a mailed care package of cryptic crossword puzzles, a sturdy glasses case, wasabi peas, two cheesy het romance novels, and a compilation of short indie horror films on DVD.

From Alexander Hamilton: an emailed 2000 word essay on why Pierre was a great friend and generally person, with subject line: “am broke and insomniac, so hope you like I guess??”

From Reinette, who stopped by the night before: a keychain you could sync to an app on your phone, which would help you locate your keys if you lost them. She loved hers, she said.

From Ada: confirmation that she’d taken the funds from Lafayette and successfully bought Pierre a ticket to Paris on the same flight as Chev, sitting next to Chev. She said it wasn’t possible to put them both in higher than Economy class without “assholery”, so she’d “bestowed” enough miles onto the passenger who was supposed to have sat next to Chev for that person to upgrade. And sent her a very official-looking email to alert her, with a plausible explanation for the windfall. More fun than letting the de Lafayettes throw money at all problems. 

From Benjy: a book called ‘The Cuddle Sutra’, with illustrations of many cuddle configurations. 

From Francesco, who had given it to Friedrich last time Friedrich visited him and Fritz: tickets to Voltaire’s off-Broadway stage adaptation of his own novel _Candide_. Francesco was not the only person Pierre knew who knew Voltaire - Pierre himself had met him briefly - but he was the only one who’d had a threesome with him. As far as Pierre knew. He wouldn’t put it past Benjamin Franklin if the opportunity arose. 

From various people: Facebook wishes and shared cute/funny/nerdy memes and links. Most noteworthy being a blog about badly translated or gibberish Chinese/Japanese tattoos, Hanzi Smatter, sent by Thom Pinckney. 

From his parents: emails he didn’t delete, but put in a special folder to look at when he was ready, not have right at the top of his inbox. 

***

From Friedrich, who had “custody” of him for most of the day, since they were soon to be separated for almost two months:

1\. Brunch

2\. A long walk in a secluded park, where there were so few other people that Pierre felt comfortable walking hand-in-hand with him. (Pierre knew it pained Friedrich that the age difference embarrassed him in public, but he couldn’t help it and Friedrich didn’t push. It was another reason they’d decided they weren’t cut out to be primaries.) 

_“On no account sign up for the seminar that’s going to be offered next semester on ‘War and Narratives of Masculinity’,” Friedrich warned him. “I’m going to be the one teaching it, and I think neither of us want me to be your professor.”_

_Pierre thought about this. “Not in real life. But...maybe pretend?”_

3\. Going back to Friedrich’s house to pretend. Extensively. Use of Pierre’s one allowed orgasm until he was reunited with his Marquis and Marquise. 

4\. An exceptional abundance of lovely fingertip bruises and bite marks and ligature marks. 

5\. A repair kit for his bicycle, with a promise to teach him how to use it, and a new bike helmet. 

6\. Dinner for three, Chev included.

***

From Chev, after Friedrich handed him over:

1\. In Pierre’s apartment, a performance of a violin cover of “Raise Your Glass” by P!nk, because Pierre had once said it was the song playing during his first kiss, at a high school dance.

2\. After time to dress accordingly, taking him to a club for drinks (well, two for Pierre because Neuralizine and none for Chev because driving) and dancing. They went to a gay one because Chev felt slightly safer there. For extra security their presentation skewed male for the occasion. The bartender looked at Pierre’s ID, smiled, and put a bonus tiny umbrella in his drink for him. 

_Chev went to get some water, and Pierre elected to continue dancing while they were gone, but at the edge of the crowd so Chev could easily find him again. He stopped suddenly when he felt a hand on his ass, and whirled around. “Excuse me?” he said with as much indignation as he could._

_The culprit grinned. “Sorry, cutie, I got a little carried a-AUKK!”_

_Suddenly Chev had appeared behind the man and had looped a shoelace around his throat, teetering him not onto his back but certainly backwards. Chev was at least five inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter than him. “Genuine, non-dickhead apology. Now.”_

3\. Back at Pierre’s, twenty-one spanks and twenty-one cane strokes. Followed by making out during a bubble bath.

4\. A pewter pendant on a leather cord. The pendant was a customized cast of Chev’s right thumbprint. 

_”I am never going to take this off if I can help it,” Pierre said as Chev helped him put it on._

_“I’d prefer you took it off when having sex with other people, and also maybe don’t get it wet too often.”_

_“Fair enough. This is perfect. Thank you.”_

5\. The singularly odd, but in this case appropriate, lullaby

_“So raise your glass if you are wrong in all the right ways, all my underdogs, we will never be, never be...anything but loud...and….what’s the next part?”_

_”And nitty-gritty…_

_“Dirty little freaks...so come on and come on and raise your glass…for Pierre.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Du Ponceau turned 21 after the war ended. Such a smol. As he grew old and started ailing he said his one wish each year was to see the June roses that bloomed around the time of his birthday. Yellow roses are for friendship, red for passion.
> 
> Refresher: Real, known lovable lech Franklin was close friends with Voltaire, and known bisexual Algarotti was close friends with Voltaire and his longtime partner Emilie, who was in an open marriage. 
> 
> Hanzi Smatter is real, as is The Cuddle Sutra.


	23. learn how to love what you have

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I were to be historically accurate, this chapter would add YET ANOTHER LOUIS into this AU's extended cast, so I'm calling him Lucas instead. Françoise, similarly, has been nicknamed Frankie because the extended AU also has a Francis and a Frances, plus it fits the personality I've come up with for her better.

Chev sat alone on one of the college lawn chairs on one of the smaller lawns under one of the smaller trees for just under ten minutes before their guest joined them. 

“Clever of you,” Agent Armistead said as he sat down. He was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. He'd been in a tidy suit both times Chev had met him before. "The student who supposedly sent me an invitation to your graduation ceremony, with a note not in your handwriting asking me to come the evening before for a commemorative casual photoshoot ‘at Ivy corner’ at this time - does she actually exist?”

“No.” During the time Chev had experimented with being in an all-girls’ high school, they’d cultivated an entirely different, more stereotypically girly style of handwriting from their natural one. Charlotte-writing. “It’s called ‘ivy corner’ because the poison ivy keeps growing back despite all efforts, by the way, so watch your legs.”

Armistead checked to make sure the immediate area around him was clear. “Ah, that’s why you’re wearing tights under your sundress.”

“Uh huh. If we talk quietly and act naturally, nobody’s coming near us.”

“And this is one of the few days of the year where the campus is choked with people who don’t go here, yet they’re all wandering around rather than focusing on a central event.” 

“It seemed a lot more natural than me going to your neck of the woods.” Chev took a sip of the smoothie they’d grabbed from the campus cafe earlier. 

On the other side of the field, a couple were draped over a statue, taking selfies in casual clothes but with their graduation caps on at a jaunty angle. Armistead gave them a once-over and must have concluded that they were uninterested. “I presume this is about our mutual friend.”

“It is.”

“You’ve agreed to work with him.”

“I have.”

“Will it do him any harm?”

“I am almost certain it will not. He is, as we have said, my friend too.”

A group of minimally-clad students, faces adorned with blue handprints a la Braveheart, ran by wielding water pistols, yelling battle cries. One of them was, “They can give us diplomas, but they can never give us MEANING!”

“I miss college.” Armistead allowed himself three seconds of nostalgia before getting back to business. “Are you going to give me more than that?”

“Both of us are treading on thin ice with our bosses by having this conversation with each other.”

“I told my boss that my toddler was sick and I drove two hours.”

Chev smirked. “I never knew that whininess was an interrogation technique.”

“Hey, I’m a friend of a friend.”

“Consider my current skill level. He’s dealing with trouble that goes beyond just him. Ask him about me. Draw your conclusions. That’s all I can do for you.”

“Wrong. You can give him this for me.” Armistead took a slender thumb drive out of his wallet and placed it in Chev’s hand.

“What do I get for doing that?”

“Warm fuzzy feelings. No?”

Chev raised their eyebrows and waited.

“Next time my people are interested in hiring one of your people, I’ll put your name forward. Taking an assignment from us slightly increases the chances of legal assistance if you mess up later on in your career, if only because it would be really awkward if the other big acronym found out about our history. Slightly. No guarantees it’d work.” The only reasons the predominantly foreign-affairs-associated CIA was interested in the Agency were because of Mr. 15’s European syndicate links and willingness to sell out in small ways from time to time, and because of occasionally hiring contractors through it. Strictly speaking, the CIA was not completely supposed to do the latter, and it would be slightly not good for this type of subcontracting to become too well-known. Chev suspected the “other big acronym” was the FBI. 

“You astound me with your generosity, good sir.” Chev tucked it into their bra for now. They’d be getting changed within an hour. 

Armistead snorted. “You’re very cynical.”

“I slept in a cardboard box under a bridge a few times. That’s kind of like living in a barrel. Seriously, though, did you know the Cynics actually believed in virtue based on nature and your own power of reason rather than societal constructs? No wonder the modern age has turned the word to something negative.”

“Chev?”

“Yes?”

“If you knew we’d take you, would you apply? You’re a good kid, as far as I can tell, but you’re going to be playing with fire for a living.”

Chev took a deliberately and obnoxiously long sip of their smoothie. “You’re a good guy, as far as I can tell, but the only real difference between many of your colleagues and me is who’s calling the shots and signing the checks, and what the rationale is for what we’re doing. Not including the ones who are worse than I ever plan on being. I’d rather risk an orange jumpsuit on myself than fill a hellish corner of of an island with them.”

Bam! Critical hit. From his expression, Armistead was the type to be distressed by a comment like that - not as in offended, but with a pang of guilt or regret. No wonder Lafayette liked him. “...That’s military, not federal.”

“Point stands. Same things happen in other places, and it ultimately goes back to the same people.” 

Armistead rubbed his face with his hands. “You’re not totally wrong, though you’re being rather unfair, but flawed systems need…”

“Good people. People like you. Yeah. I don’t disagree with that. I like you. I hope you keep being our go-to contact, and that you don’t end up being sent overseas. If you were in charge, who knows? But you’re not. If I knew they’d take me, if I knew they’d let me be me, if I knew I didn’t have to check the boxes and fit in those boxes, if I didn’t have to wear a suit unless I wanted to wear a suit, if I didn’t find them morally questionable in ways that you think I should find my own path questionable...those are the kinds of ‘if’s’ big enough to block any ‘maybes’.” Chev’s phone pinged and their heart pounded. They thought they knew what it might be. 

“It’s their loss,” Armistead said softly.

“Thanks. Better the chance of maybe a real cell one day to the certainty of a metaphorical one every day of your life.” Chev checked their phone. Yep. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got a scarier meeting than with you shortly, and of course, like always, they had to be inconveniently early.”

***

“It was their own fault they were like half an hour early so don’t worry about it and they’ve already ordered appetizers but we can always order ones you like better if you want other ones,” Chev said as they parked next to the restaurant.

“Maybe talk more slowly and take more breaths.”

“Okay.”

Pierre gently pulled on Chev’s necktie to maneuver them into a kiss, and smoothed out a wrinkle in their skirt. He suspected Chev was almost hoping that a waiter would take exception to their clothing combination, which was Formal Male from the waist up and Formal Female from the waist down. 

“Your bowtie is so damn adorable I just want to wad it up and stuff your mouth with it,” Chev said, like they were discussing potential alternate appetizers. Though in a sense, maybe they were.

Without missing a beat, Pierre said, “Maybe not with this bowtie, because it was a gift from my grandma, but I could get another one.” He let go of Chev’s tie.

“Mmm. Let’s do this thing.” They held Pierre’s hand tightly as the two went in. 

Pierre knew a handful of details about Chev’s parents. Frankie’s real name was Françoise. She had cousins and cousins-once-removed in France, some of whom Chev was going to visit this summer. She sold Avon cosmetics, believed despite all counter-evidence that it was dangerous to be within three feet of a microwave while it was cooking, and liked having one or two cats around the house at any given time. Lucas was in stolid white-collardom. He played bass in a garage band composed of a rotating squad of middle-aged dads who mostly just played at each other’s birthday parties and barbecues. They weren’t much for church, but they were much for the local high school’s football games. 

They were a pair of fluffy clouds that had produced a lightning bolt.

“There they are,” Chev said. “In that corner.”

Now Pierre could see that Chev, like Pierre, strongly favored their mother when it came to appearance. Both she and her husband had dressed up, though one of Lucas’ shirt buttons didn’t match the others. Probably a replacement.

Pierre knew that Chev’s relationship with their mom was slightly more comfortable than their relationship with their dad. (With Pierre it was actually the other way around, mostly because they shared more interests but partly because he fussed less than Maman did.) Bearing Chev’s comfort in mind, Pierre made a beeline for the seat across from Chev’s dad as if he were incredibly eager for it. He reached out a hand. “I’m Pierre Etienne, nice to meet you.”

Chev made his way to standing behind the other chair and put an arm around Pierre’s waist, as if using him for balance. “Yes, hi, Dad, this is Pierre, Pierre, Dad, Mom, Pierre, Pierre, Mom, everyone, everyone.”

The parents demanded to be called by their first names, and Frankie squeezed Pierre’s hand while shaking it. “We’ve been dying to meet you, hon, haven’t we?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, now you have,” Pierre said, smiling.

She gestured. “Sit, sit!”

“You too,” Lucas said to his offspring. Chev sat with a posture appropriate for someone who thought the backrest might become electrified at any moment. Their dad noticed. “You can relax. It’s all right.”

Chev’s posture changed to be appropriate for someone who had been reliably informed that the voltage would be merely painful, not injurious.

“We ordered a bottle of white wine for the table. A Chardonnay. Is that okay?” Lucas asked.

“I told him I think you don’t like white wine, but he said it was red that you don’t like and won me over. I hope we didn’t get it wrong.” Frankie handed Chev a menu. 

“I don’t dislike either, It’s fine,” Chev said, passing the menu to Pierre. Chev didn’t dislike white wine, but they were far pickier about it than with other types, Pierre knew. With reds Chev was easy to please, and they were “a slut for rosé”. 

“I just like being allowed to have it in this country after being able to get it during summer vacation just fine for years,” Pierre piped up amiably. Speaking of sluts for things, the dessert menu had a fresh strawberry sorbet topped with ‘homemade’ strawberry preserves, ooooo. 

Lucas took a roll from the breadbasket and started buttering it. “Oh yes, Chev told us that you spend a lot of time in France. You were born in France, right? And that was something you two bonded over? You must have been very young when you came here. You don’t have an accent or anything.” 

Both Chev and Frankie cringed slightly. Pierre put a hand on Chev’s leg before Chev vibrated out of their skin. “Well, as a proud Linguistics major I can be pedantic and tell you that everyone has an accent. Even people who use sign language have ‘accents’, isn’t that interesting? I was within the critical period in which most normal humans can acquire a native accent in a new language, so that made it easier. The upper end, actually. Seven years old.” 

“Songbirds have regional accents, I heard that on NPR I think,” Frankie offered.

Chev’s lips quirked into a quarter-smile.

Pierre kept his hand on their leg and took a look at the seafood items. That’s what you were supposed to have with white wines, right? Pierre’s family never paid much attention to it, but being a wine and beer snob was one of the things Chev had reclaimed from their abusive relationship. He hadn’t had seafood for a while anyway. 

Chev thawed through the ordering stage, and the appetizer stage, and fended off with good humor all advice about sending some applications to law school “in case your upcoming job doesn’t work out”. 

Then came the question about what Pierre was looking to do after he graduated. He paused mid-scallop-spearing. “I want to go to grad school at some point, but I’m not sure if I’ll go straight away. There are a few other things I’m interested in that I might do first. For example, I know someone who works for the Bureau of Indian Affairs who says there’s a program for preserving and reviving endangered languages that she thinks I’d be a good fit for, as like an intern maybe. I’d go to reservations all over the country. And, like, there’s a group of researchers who are trying to decipher the ancient Etruscan language of Tuscany, and I don’t think it’d be much of a hardship to try to solve the riddle of a lost civilization...in Tuscany. You know?”

Chev’s parents chuckled. Frankie got more serious. “Do you have any plans for where you’re going with Chev?”

“We’re flying to Charles de Gaulle airport together a few days,” Chev said quickly.

“That’s not what I meant,” she said.

Lucas finished the last of his rice pilaf. “We know you care about them very much, you’ve proven that and then some...” 

“What’s with the ‘let’s cross-examine Pierre’ all of a sudden?” Chev growled.

“He clearly makes you so happy, we just want to know more,” their mother said soothingly.

“Whatever happens between Chev and me, we’ll discuss it openly and sincerely between us,” Pierre said, voice even. 

Chev cleared their throat. “Emphasis on ‘between us’.”

“Sir, Ma’am, Chev was nervous enough about what you’d think of me even when they knew you were predisposed to like me. If the new issue is what you think about us as us, I’m not sure what will happen to Chev, but I will be tempted to hide under the table. That’s an example of sincere and open communication.”

“I love you,” Chev blurted out.

“That’s another example,” Pierre said.

There was a brief silence. Frankie held up her glass. “A toast to yet another generation of kids surviving distressing but apologetic parents?”

“We will never be anything but loud and nitty gritty dirty little freaks,” Pierre said, raising his.

Lucas frowned. “Is this a new reference?”

“It’s seven years old, Dad, geez. If I’m supposed to be open and sincere, then to four years of family healing.” Chev raised their glass of meh wine, and their hand shook only a little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chev made a reference to Guantanamo Bay, which Armistead correctly pointed out isn't run by the CIA. The CIA has done and does other questionable things. It also has many good people working for it, and does things that are important. These are not mutually exclusive. Characters' views are not necessarily my own, but I just loved the twist of them finding the legal spying more morally abhorrent than the illegal. 
> 
> Chev also referenced the Cynic philosopher Diogenes, who voluntarily lived in a barrel and was happy when he realized he could drink from his cupped hands and therefore didn't need to own a cup.
> 
> Du Ponceau, age 80, wrote extensively about how amazing a dish of preserved strawberries was that he ate as an overnight guest at Mount Vernon, age somewhere between 17-20.


	24. take you there safely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Representation and diversity in fiction are slippery things. If you only write what you know, then there's little diversity, but if you write what you don't know completely, you might get it wrong. And sometimes it's really bad to get it wrong, especially if related issues are painfully topical. It would have been disingenuous of me to write Chev going through international air travel without at least mentioning them dealing with problems related to their gender and sex. I'm a cis woman, and don't feel like I have the skills to accurately write that from their POV. 
> 
> However, I _have_ dated a trans* person and know how it feels to try to help and to get increasingly frustrated with a world that has so many unneeded obstacles for someone I love. That's why when things that apply generally to trans*/intersex people, rather than just Chev, come up in this story, it's mostly going to be from Pierre's POV. It's a compromise where I can write more accurately but also address issues with some degree of realism. It's not from any lack of wanting to give Chev a voice. 
> 
> (This chapter is quite mild, incidentally. No graphic prejudice, so to speak.)

“Charles-Genevieve Deno!”

Chev laughed and went to pick up their scroll and receive their handshake. Close enough.

Pierre gave them a massive bouquet. Their parents gave them a gift certificate to get a custom frame for their diploma, once they’d traded in the prop scroll for it.

In the post-ceremony scrum, a few of their fencing buddies found them and insisted on taking photos together. When Reinette found them, she introduced herself to their parents and chatted a bit, friendly in tone but with an aggressively protective edge underneath the surface. “It’s a shame I’ve heard so little about you! You must be proud of having such independent offspring. Chev seems to have such a need to prove that they don’t need help, you may have noticed, so it’s been an honor to be their friend…”

She insisted on not taking photos together. To the others she claimed she was busy and needed to run, but Chev knew the real reason was that Reinette believed it was safer to have as little concrete evidence of their friendship as possible out in the world. Reinette family wasn’t there for her - they’d given her the choice between marrying Marie or ever seeing them again. 

Chev bore that in mind when their parents insisted on taking just them out for a later-afternoon meal before setting off for home. Chev endured it with convincing smiles and consented to hugs. 

They went back to Jeanne’s apartment to load their stuff into their car. There wasn’t much, and Friedrich had kindly agreed to store it in his basement next to Pierre’s stuff over the summer. They found that all their stuff was gone, including the suitcase and backpack for the trip. Jeanne told then that Pierre and some other guy had taken it away.

“You looked tired,” Pierre explained when Chev arrived at Friedrich’s house. Friedrich had offered to let them stay overnight and drive them to the airport in the morning. 

“I am,” Chev said. “I feel like I’ve been awake for five years and am finally getting to lie down. Thank you, that was nice of you, though I’m disturbed by how trusting Jeanne was in just letting people take my stuff, even if one of them’s my boyfriend. What if we’d broken up since I last mentioned you and this was revenge?”

“You’re disturbed by how trusting most people are,” Pierre pointed out. He pulled them down to the couch with him and into a restorative cuddle. “Will pizza help?”

“Yes.”

While they were waiting for the pizza to arrive, Pierre excused himself to go to the bathroom. Friedrich handed Chev a small wrapped gift.

It was a thin, very dark blue beanie in a cabled pattern. Presumably knit by him. 

“It shouldn’t be that warm, and you should be able to tuck all your hair into it,” Friedrich said quietly, though he couldn’t stop tapping his foot. “It’s a type of yarn available in many countries from many different distributors. Understand?”

Chev understood. When sneaking around, better to leave a hat fiber behind than a strand of hair, and better to wear a casual, hipster-looking hat than remind people of a cat burglar all in black. Friedrich had shouted at them when they first told them they’d accepted a job offer from Mr. 15, that they didn’t know what they were getting into, and that this could endanger Pierre. This was a token of acceptance, not just a thoughtful hat. 

“Fritz said you took up knitting when you had to spend a lot of time waiting patiently for...people to show up,” Chev said. They enjoyed the mental image of a young Friedrich on stakeout, knitting away, then getting annoyed if an enemy showed up mid-row and made him drop stitches.

“Is telling me that your way of thanking me?”

“Yes. Now you can retaliate.”

Then came Pierre’s shuffling footsteps. He was wearing slippers that made it look like he had giant cat paws for feet. Friedrich patted Chev on the back. “Maybe - LARCENY - later.”

Over dinner, Chev decided it was time to tell Pierre a better cover story, the version that they’d told their parents earlier that day, and inform Friedrich of it at the same time. “Hey, sweet P?”

Pierre paused in putting hideous amounts of extra oregano on his slice. “Yeah?”

“Now that I’m going to be a full-time employee after I return from France, I can give you a few more details about my job, and explain why I have to be cagey about it.” 

“Chev…” Friedrich’s warning sounded more casual that it was.

Chev hurried into their explanation before Friedrich misunderstood and had a stroke at Chev’s recklessness. “It helps people who are a bit different, you know, in a few ways, often mentally, find work. Or people who have records. Some of their issues are sensitive and confidentiality and privacy are important. My performance doing basic tasks for them impressed the higher-ups enough that I’m going to be in a more interesting position in human resources. They’ll give me some additional training on the job. They had problems with interns blabbing in the past and them being really vigilant against it happening again, otherwise I would have been less vague earlier.”

Pierre smiled. “That makes so much sense! I’m glad their company culture has them be accepting of you, too.”

“That was a major draw.”

“That’s lovely. I’m proud of you. Won’t bug you for details, then, promise.”

After eating, Chev still felt overstimulated and knew they had an even longer day tomorrow. “I think I’ll retire to the guest bedroom.”

“You going to be okay without me?” Pierre asked, putting a hand on their shoulder.

“I need some alone time, and then I need to sleep for about ten hours. You go pay the nice man for our accommodations and safe passage tomorrow.”

Friedrich snorted. “Are you his pimp now?”

“Only if I get to dress lavishly. I would look very good in a velvet suit and bejeweled hat, maybe a bunch of sparkly rings. What about spats? Can I wear spats?”

“Wear whatever you want. You’re already a natural with a cane,” Pierre added. 

“He’s going to have to sit a lot tomorrow,” Chev reminded Friedrich. “No over-enthusiasm. Or letting him come, he’s still under agreement.”

“You’re a conscientious pimp, my friend. Sleep - larceny - well.” Friedrich hoisted Pierre over his shoulder, caveman style. 

As Chev headed for the guest room, they heard Pierre lament that he’d dropped a slipper, and Friedrich reply, “Where we’re going, we don’t need slippers.” 

***

Pierre woke bruised in many strategic places. It wasn’t a bad start to a day. He was alone, as Friedrich and Chev had both taken Azor out running, plus Friedrich was probably going to squeeze a bit of a workout in, too. The playroom downstairs had a cabinet full of small portable weights and resistance bands and so on. Maybe Chev would join in that too? Pierre was a strictly cardio guy, so it was all fairly opaque to him. He was happy his primary and secondary romantic partners got along so well.

He took a shower, got dressed, then assembled a breakfast. There was a newspaper on the dining table. Pierre flipped to the “games and puzzles” page. Sudoku and the normal crossword were the same difficulty for him as ever, but he solved word scrambles and other types of “decoding” typle puzzles so automatically these days that he only knew they were supposed to be puzzles because they were labeled as such. They weren’t fun anymore because they were no different from reading. He could now do the cryptic crossword exactly as easily as the normal one, and that was a little fun, though less fun than it had once been. He solved both of them while he ate, but without writing the answers down. He didn’t want to risk the others noticing.

There was time for Chev and Friedrich to shower in the separate bathrooms before they had to leave. Chev was going to present as male for the entire journey. “It’ll make for less of a hassle every time someone checks my passport, and I feel slightly less misgendered if my current presentation visually matches what people are calling me.”

“Is there something I can do?” Pierre asked.

“Stand next to me if I use a urinal. Keep me from hamstringing anyone who looks at me funny.”

Chev had been on a few short flights before, but never through Dulles International Airport. Pierre knew that airport like he knew the soundtrack of the Bly musical, though with less enthusiasm. In the car, sitting side by side with Chev, he outlined a game plan involving where all the cheapest and most convenient places to buy food and drink were, the gates they were most likely to leave from and the amenities closest to them, shops where they could pick up any essentials they realized they’d forgotten, and most importantly, a map of the unisex single-occupancy bathrooms throughout the entire terminal. 

“Wait, where’d you find that?”

“I made it on my way to catch my flight to Vietnam during Winter Break. Posted it to my tumblr in case other people might want to use it.”

“You goddamn magnificent nerd.”

“Ooh, can I put that on my resume?”

Chev’s game plan consisted of two key components: demand the pat-down option rather than the full-body-scanner option, and wear their “motherfuckin’ parrotfish” t-shirt.

“I approve of liberal usage of profanity,” Friedrich said, even as he merged into another lane. “However, what is so motherfucking about your parrotfish shirt?”

“A few months ago, I learned in conversation with John Laurens, he of the love for aquatic creatures, that parrotfish are born with immature versions of both male and female sex organs. They go on to specialize according to necessity, though if they go from female to male they can’t change back, unlike hawkfish. But parrotfish, unlike hawkfish, eat coral and excrete a fine, white sand that often eventually accumulates into those beautiful tropical beaches, which is way cooler.”

Pierre snickered at this, as had Chev when they’d first heard.

They continued, “I immediately found a t-shirt online with a colorful, one might say rainbow, parrotfish on it, and told myself that the next time I was in a situation where I had to shut my mouth and let people call me ‘Mister’ all day, I would wear this shirt and remind myself that out there, under the sea, what I can choose to think of as nonbinary creatures are...are eating rocks and shitting islands.”

“You’re a little on edge, aren’t you, Chevy?” Pierre asked in just above a whisper, running fingers through Chev’s hair.

Chev leaned into it. “Yeah.”

“That’s pretty badass fish info though.”

Perhaps the parrotfish brought them good luck. It all went smoothly enough. Friedrich dropped them off with plenty of time to check in and go through security, to minimize stress. Chev’s request for a pat-down slowed things down a little, but Pierre liked having time to retie his shoes after getting them back from the x-ray. The pat-down wasn’t invasive enough to make it obvious that Chev was wearing a snug sports bra. The motherfuckin’ parrotfish shirt was quite large and loose on them, too. Since the reduction, they’d kept just one binder for emergencies. 

Pierre’s bathroom map came in handy, their row was called early in the boarding process, and Chev got a window seat because they wanted to enjoy the view Pierre had become blasé about. The seat on Pierre’s other side was empty. Pierre suspected that Ada must have done something, though it’d be funny if it was just a coincidence.

The two of them talked, swapped food items when the meal service came around, watched a movie simultaneously, talked some more, and then each pulled out a book of their own. Chev fell asleep with their book of word puzzles dangling loosely from their fingers. When Pierre finished painstakingly making his way through a chapter of _Journey Into the West_ in Chinese, he turned off his Kindle and eyed Chev’s book. He lifted it gently from their lap and looked at the page they’d been working on. It was a delightful cipher that Pierre actually had to think about for a moment. 

Chev had deciphered a sentence and a half:

_The three aspects of a triune goddess or trinity of goddesses appear as sisters. They are the maiden (often blonde and beautiful, and either a naive ditz or a budding seductress), the_

Pierre didn’t write anything down, but after about two minutes of letting the Neuralizine be improbable inside his mind, it was like the words fell into place, like a frozen stream became something he could swim in.

_matron/mother (often plump and rather eccentric, or pregnant) and the crone (often sharp-witted, sharp-tongued, bitter and unsentimental, but not without kindness). In terms of a Freudian Trio, the maiden is the Id, the crone is the Superego, and the mother is the Ego. Even though they are the same being, they seem to know and think different things, so they bicker. In fantasy stories, these characters may be exactly what they appear, or they may be a trio of witches or wise women who reflect the aspects of the goddess._

Then Chev woke and snatched the book from Pierre’s hand. “Did I say you could touch that?”

Pierre shrank away. “No. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

Chev blinked and took a deep breath. “Shit. No, I’m sorry. When, uh...once or twice, before I got that woman, Yeliseveta, to let me sleep on her couch, when I was sleeping on benches and in boxes and so on...I had to keep all my possessions with me all the time...and…”

“I get it. I touched a nerve. I was rude, too.”

“Please don’t touch my things without permission, unless it’s an emergency. But I’m not really mad.”

“Okay.” Pierre still felt slightly miserable.

“Bored and tired Pierre is a bad combination, I see,” Chev said, more gently. They put the book away and maneuvered things around so that Pierre could lie curled on both his seat and the empty seat with his head in Chev’s lap. Pierre didn’t sleep, but he fell into a light, time-killing doze.

Their flight landed ten minutes early. Chev had to catch a train and ride it for about two hours to get them to the station where a representative from the English camp would come pick them up. They called said representative as soon as they got through Immigration. Charles had unlocked Chev’s phone so they could use it anywhere, and Pierre had a cheap, pay-as-you-go phone he used while in France. 

Pierre was all set to say goodbye and set off with the man holding a sign with his name on it. Chev grabbed him by the wrist. “That could be anyone. Call your hosts, describe the man, and ask for confirmation that they sent him.”

Smart. Pierre called Adrienne, and she confirmed. “Gilbert arranged to do business in Paris today, so the driver will take you to his hotel room, and my boys will both be with me tomorrow at last.”

“I can’t wait,” Pierre replied, and hung up. 

Chev kissed him. “See you in five weeks.” Chev could only spare the time for one weekend at the château, then later one weekend in Paris together before flying back. 

That was fine. Chev was within sight of a long-held, hard-earned dream. Pierre had things to see and people to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From fightbackfic.tumblr.com :
> 
> An author signs up to provide fic: 100 words per $1 donated to an organization of their choice, with a cap in obligation at 2000 words.
> 
> A donor contacts the author to figure out what the author will write, how much money they should give, and what organization they’d like the money for.
> 
> The donor donates the money and sends proof of their donation to fightbackficauction@gmail.com.
> 
> The author is given the go-ahead to write.
> 
>  
> 
> Interested? Go to the Author List and find my info. I'm offering Hamilton, The Sandman, Steam Powered Giraffe, and Firefly.


	25. your house on the hills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Nobody's taken advantage of my availability at fightbackfic.tumblr.com for the March round yet! March 5 is the deadline! Pretty please?
> 
> \- This pretty tangential, but I read an interview with Daveed Diggs in which he casually mentions that his father isn't straight, but that it doesn't change the fact that his concept of ideal masculinity comes from his perception of his father as quintessentially charismatic. I think it meshes nicely with my characterization of Lafayette. 
> 
> http://www.esquire.com/entertainment/music/a45240/daveed-diggs-profile-hamilton/

The driver was the taciturn type and Pierre was tired, so he silently watched the familiar streets of Paris pass by, legs relishing the additional room compared to several hours in Economy class. He took off his analogue wristwatch to change the time and smiled at the small tattoo on his inner forearm. He didn’t think about it much these days. The crossed French and Vietnamese flags with _vive la indulgence_ underneath had been done here, shortly after his eighteenth birthday. His father had sat with him during the process and his mother had pitched a fit after…

Pierre stopped himself and looked to see if he could see the Seine. Adrienne had said that the hotel was near it. 

The hotel turned out to be nice, but not ostentatiously nice, with old-world, weathered charm. Discreetly luxurious. He was politely ushered to a suite tucked into the corner of the sixth, topmost, floor. Once alone he took in the plump bed that looked ridiculously inviting, a pair of cushy chairs not counting the one that went with the carved, stained-wood writing desk, French (hah) windows onto a balcony, and carpet that he felt like he could sink in like comfy quicksand. He took his shoes and socks off, and his feet were happy. The ceilings were high and everything airy enough that the overhead, vaguely Art Deco fan was sufficient for cooling.

He called Chev, to check in. Their check-in schedule would be different here, but both still wanted to have one. Certain fears might never quite go away. Chev didn’t answer, but a voicemail would do. Then he called Adrienne.

“I’m in the hotel room. I need to pee but I called you first.”

“Good boy,” Adrienne said, amused. “You have thirty minutes to freshen up before room service arrives. I’ve pre-arranged something you’ll like.”

Pierre felt weak at the knees. He didn’t do this semi-lifestyle style of D/S with anyone else, and while he personally wouldn’t enjoy doing it as a literal ongoing lifestyle, doing it as a vacation was almost more than he felt like he deserved. He could opt out at any time with no consequences, of course, but they almost never made him want to. “Yes, Adrienne.”

“Gilbert will join you at a late hour. Don’t wait for him. He has my blessing to ask to play with you as long as you don’t come. That’s for tomorrow. As always, you may refuse him.”

“Yes, Adrienne.”

“In case we don’t talk again until you arrive, goodnight. I won’t maintain this level of authoritativeness your entire visit. I’m just compensating for having to wait another day for you.”

Pierre laughed, and she hummed pleasantly and hung up. Then he went to the bathroom, which had walls painted with forest scenes, and emerged twenty minutes later dressed in the pajamas and dressing gown that had been left nicely folded on the counter for him. Room service came right on time, white tablecloth on the carried-in table and all. He cleaned his plate, called for the table to be removed, brushed his teeth, and went to bed. It was only eight PM. He didn’t care. 

When he pulled back the covers, he found a note placed right between the two sets of abundant pillows that the pajamas were for lounging around, not for sleeping in. He took the hint and disrobed before finally pulling the soft sheets over himself and turning off the lamp.

He awoke to a touch on his shoulder. He was startled and disoriented for a second, then Lafayette said, “Shhh,” and rubbed his thumb soothingly on bare skin. 

Pierre sat up for a decorous exchange of cheek-kisses before accepting a very indecorous French (hah) kiss. When released he blinked in the warm, dim light. “You got your hair cut. It’s so short.” It looked nice, but it made Pierre feel an irrational pang of nostalgia, a reminder that none of them were the same as they’d been last November. 

“Just yesterday, I’m afraid. I had appointments with some difficult people today and I was hoping it would make me seem more serious.” Lafayette had stripped down to boxers. How long had he been back? Had he been very stealthy, or had Pierre been just that dead to the world?

“Sorry it was difficult. Do you, uh, want to talk about it?” Pierre was so sleepy that he wasn’t completely sure what language they were speaking in. 

“Not right now. I am very, very, very glad to see you. Move over. You’re sprawling every which way.”

Pierre yawned twice while Lafayette was getting comfortable. “Sorry I’m so sleepy. Jet fatigue and jet lag, you know? And I didn’t sleep much the night before.”

“I’m not surprised, given who hosted you. If you get up before I do, _mon cher_ , don’t leave the suite unless it’s an emergency. Not counting the balcony, naturally, the balcony is fine. I have a bag of snacks you’re free to raid to tide you over until breakfast.”

“Yes, Lafayette.” Pierre, who was currently lying on his back, gave Lafayette an appraising glance. He evaluated him as his friend, not just as his sub. Lafayette’s tiredness wasn’t just from having a long day and being up late. It went bone-deep. If Lafayette didn’t want to talk about it…

“Why are you smiling at me like that?” Lafayette asked, poking him lazily in the sternum under the covers.

“If it’d take your…” Pierre yawned again. “If, if it’d take your, if you’d feel better, we’ve talked in the past about having some potential interest in sort-of somnophilia. I don’t think I’d be up for more than that, but we could see this as an opportunity.”

“While that might be fun another time, somnophilia of any degree requires one of the participants to be fully awake. I’m also not in the most appropriate state of mind. I do appreciate the offer, though, it was sweet of you. You’ll be jet-lagged a few more days yet, correct?”

“Mm hm.”

Lafayette turned off the lamp. “Then this isn’t our only chance. How about you turn around and we can spork?” Sporking was the silly name they’d come up with for a variant of spooning in which the big spoon spread a leg over the little spoon’s, and had a light one-handed grip on the little spoon’s crossed wrists. This was something they only did with each other. Adrienne and Pierre had a similar thing about her putting makeup on him, not counting sometimes using her husband as a test subject. 

Carving out special, unique activities with each member of his polyfamily was one of Pierre’s favorite things ever. He’d heard that some parents of large biological families did the same with each of their children, so every one of them felt special to their parents in their own way. Also why did Pierre keep thinking of parents? He needed to think about something else.

“Your little spork loves you,” Pierre murmured after they finally, clumsily got the configuration right. 

Lafayette squeezed his wrists like one might squeeze a teddy bear to keep the monsters under the bed from straying further. Pierre’s muzzy mind felt honored to be granted this standard plushie superpower, if only for a night. “Shh, go to sleep.”

***

Lafayette drove them home himself, so they could speak freely and take as leisurely a time they wanted. They checked out cafes and little bookstores when they were in urban areas, and stopped to admire views and take pictures for Pierre’s instagram when they were not. 

After Pierre’s use of social media had been twisted into a way to get at Chev last fall, he’d pared it back to Instagram and Tumblr for sharing fun things without having to put in personal info. Sometimes he shared innocent pictures of himself and consenting friends without being specific about his location, and only after he was no longer there.

“Remember that trip to New York with John and Thumb-Pinky to visit Alexander?” Pierre asked rhetorically. Alexander’s low-key, long-distance secondary paramour Thomas Pinckney’s ASL nickname made Pierre happy. 

Lafayette nodded. “It seems so long ago.”

For most of the journey they talked about lighthearted things, and they laughed at jokes that weren’t that objectively funny but were boosted by the joy of seeing a friend again. If Pierre had to choose between his friendship with the couple and his sexual relationship with them, it’d be easy. You could give yourself an orgasm. You couldn’t give yourself conversations like this one. 

(The one schizophrenic person he knew who had persistent, distinct hallucinatory voices said that sometimes he could muster a bit of banter with them, but considered them cautious allies if most.)

It was dark when they got to the chateau. Pierre had seen pictures, but not of the centuries-old mansion all glowing with lanterns under the night sky. He whistled. “So, where do you keep the abrasive, spoiled beast who needs to earn the love of a good woman?”

“That is over and done with. Adrienne had the dubious honor of knowing me when I was in my early teens.” Lafayette grinned and signaled to a guard to open the broad iron gates. “The staff weren’t stuck as singing furniture, though. The enchantress responsible had some sense of proportion.”

Lafayette let someone take the car away to park it, but he waved away offers to help with luggage. Pierre followed him. He felt as much a tourist as a guest. “You’re not going to give me a wing to stay in or something, right? Because I’d be honored but also lonely.”

“No. I grew up with a set of five rooms - not small but not absurdly large - and a walled courtyard to call my own, and the three of us essentially live there now. When Henriette is older, she and any siblings she might have will have a few rooms to call their own as well. The rest is for our handful of live-in staff, our guests, and I suppose for ghosts.” Lafayette winked at Pierre. “You’re not a guest. You’re a temporary possession.”

“A lease?” Pierre imagined Lafayette as a child misbehaving and being told to go to his room _s_ .

“Exactly. Now let’s quicken our pace. Our lady is waiting.”

***

Adrienne handed Henriette to her husband so she could hug, kiss, and briefly grope Pierre. “Ah, I’ve missed how you squeak. I’ve already eaten but there’s dinner for the two of you laid out.”

Lafayette had hurried Pierre past the grand foyer, huge staircase, antiques covered in protective cloths, and other such things that one might expect. The door to the “family apartment” had a modern keycode lock. Adrienne had been waiting just inside for them. The first room was a combination living/dining room. The dining room could seat six, or a squeezed eight.

Pierre was surprised and delighted to notice that…”This is the furniture from your house in Virginia.” 

“It is. The rest of the place has furniture picked out by dead ancestors. This is furniture Gilbert and I chose together, and to furnish the first house we lived in as newlyweds, since he insisted on returning to America with me immediately after the wedding. That’s important, you know?” Adrienne pointed at the covered dishes on the table. “You two, eat. Give me back my daughter.”

Lafayette was busy stealing Henriette’s nose. She was thinner than Pierre imagined babies should be, but she had wide, sweet brown eyes and her hair was in tiny braids. Her onesie said, in English, “I am why we can’t have nice things.” “Since when is she only your daughter?”

“She is when I’m about to feed her. You can play with her after.” She started unbuttoning her shirt.

“Eeemmeemee,” Henriette said, trying to retrieve her nose from inside Papa’s fist. 

“She likes repeating syllables,” Lafayette said as he handed Henriette back. 

Adrienne wasn’t wearing a bra. Henriette took care of the rest on her own. “As you may have heard, her first word was two weeks ago.”

“Right! ‘Ananas.’ I brought some handmade gifts for you from your friends Stateside, since you’re not accepting storebought, and John drew a card with all three of you as pineapples.” 

As everyone but Adrienne had dinner, everyone but Henriette talked about how old friends were doing. When Pierre and Lafayette were done eating, they put all the tableware on a tray and left it outside the door, because the protocol was that staff only came into these rooms on occasional request. Lafayette explained, "We like a bit of privacy. We got used to tidying up ourselves except for hiring a house cleaner from time to time, the way the Washingtons did after their housekeeper Billy left for a higher-paying job."

“Except for Olympe, our au pair, who watches over Henriette when I’m not. She goes in and out of Henriette’s room, which is also my study, as she pleases. She’s a writer and student and will be staying with us until she finishes her studies in France. I think you’ll like her. She’s not afraid to call out Gilbert’s mistakes. Do you want to say hello to Henriette more properly? She's about done.”

Pierre was afraid he'd drop her, but fortunately she was being encouraged to crawl around more to help her weak muscles and coordination. So he sat on the floor while she crawled. She sneaked coy glances at him and then looked away, as she roamed. Several times. He was a tiny bit in love. 

***

They showed him around after saying goodnight to Henriette. The private rooms consisted of: the living/dining room (which was the one with a door to the courtyard), Henriette’s bedroom/Adrienne’s study, Lafayette’s study/the guest bedroom, the master bedroom, and a bathroom. They’d had a maid convert the sofa bed in the study/guest bedits bed form, all nicely made up, to keep up appearances. “You’re welcome to nap in there, and of course it will be appropriate for Chev’s visit,” Lafayette said during the tour.

Then they sat Pierre down on the bed. Adrienne handed him a piece of paper. “This is not a contract. This is not a list of demands. This is a list of desires in addition to our usual rituals that we would enjoy you indulging while you're here. These are all void in case of emergency, and there are no penalties for not complying. Understand?”

“Yes, Adrienne.” Pierre read it through.

1\. You will not go beyond the family apartment (including the courtyard, which contains a lovely garden and a small swimming pool you may make use of) unaccompanied by one of us.

2\. Each day, you will wear what you are told to wear. This may or may not include the clothes you brought with you. 

3\. If something you’re wearing might interfere with us staying closeted as polyamorous and kinky, stay out of Henriette’s room. Otherwise, you may visit Henriette and chat with Olympe as much as you (and they) want.

4\. You will eat what you are given. If you are too full to finish something, it will be saved for later. If you are still hungry after finishing your portion, you may ask for another helping. You will not seek other food. 

5\. No consuming pornography or erotica, and no sexual interactions with anyone else, including long-distance, including established partners. The one exception is during Chev's visit. 

6\. Except for purposes of hygiene or alleviating pain/itching, you will not touch your own private parts. Including in-scene.

7\. You will not hide emotions or reactions, and you will put no faith in any stray feelings of shame or indebtedness. Emotions simply are, but if you have those particular ones, don’t believe them.

 

“I like it all. A lot.”

Adrienne stroked his face and Lafayette put a hand on his leg. Lafayette asked, “Let’s all wash up, perhaps?”

“We’re going to make you come so hard tonight you cry,” Adrienne promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to Olympe de Gouges: You know how Jefferson helped Lafayette write a Declaration? Guess what it didn't include. Again. Lafayette was, distressingly, a flawed person. So de Gouges rewrote it so there'd be women in the sequel, with additional sections on things like recourse for women with abusive husbands. Another of her causes was campaigning for the rights of illegitimate children
> 
> ( The idea here isn't to put her in a subservient role - au pairs are pursuing education, usually in a foreign country. They're paying their way via a temporary period of childcare. The term literally means "equal". The idea is that she's taking care of a literal Lafayette baby in a way the parents can't, while irl the Declaration was a metaphorical baby. I'm not going to try to fit Jefferson into this.)
> 
> Also tip of the hat to William "Billy" Lee, Washington's slave and personal attendant throughout the war. He was the only one of Washington's slaves freed outright in Washington's will (rather than stipulated to be freed after Martha died, which she realized was a recipe for getting murdered and freed them herself). He was treated unusually well for a slave - the will also gave him a pension of thirty dollars a month, for example - but that doesn't make not-slave. When I went to Mount Vernon I was pleased to see there was a kid-friendly book telling his story, and presenting him as a hero. I'm amazed it took me this long to namecheck him in this extended AU. I think it's because I keep imagining my Washington as Chris Jackson.


	26. butterfly float, flicker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a moment where Chev refers to an antagonistic coworker as having "comically lopsided musculature". They are not making fun of something congenital or a wound or anything. It's a reference to how, eventually, frequent intense fencing will make someone's dominant arm and the abdominal muscles on that side of the body more pronounced than the other side. It's less obvious if you have breasts and do a lot of other forms of exercise, as Chev does. Moreover, this is in response to the guy being a jerk about Chev's body.

Mme. Persuasive,

I’ve sent two official reports to Mr. 15 already. The Countess has assured me that if I correctly follow the procedure she outlined and the infrastructure she’s put together, this email will be completely secure. I’ve done that. So if there’s a leak, it’s her fault. Yep. I’m not going to take unnecessary risks no matter what, hence the variable level of detail. 

The employers who sponsored my visa have been very accepting of my identity and needs. Working for them has been pleasant. I get along with most of my coworkers and the people we are working with. I take passive-aggressive, petty measures against the ones I don’t. Not cruel, just...balancing scales. You know how I get. Sure, dude, you may be more “normal”, but do you have any idea how comically lopsided your musculature is? I’m sure the diagram drawn on your favorite t-shirt overnight has made it abundantly clear.

Anyway, we don’t all get the same consecutive two days off each week as each other, so we can cover for each other, but that’s fine. They are, at least, consistent. I’ve figured out ways to get to where I need to be in a timely and thrifty fashion. I checked, and if I don’t spend everything I got to cover work expenses, I can keep the remainder, and that’s a powerful motivator. Here’s the rundown of my “weekends”:

Weekend 1:

Having just arrived, I rested, oriented myself, learned how everything works, observed, planned. I decided not to make real friends and not to hang out, because that involves more people caring about where you go during time off. 

Weekend 2:

Meeting with people who helped me get the visa. There was hugging and stuff. It was okay. I’m selective with hugging fests, but I can play along, even if I feel slightly overwhelmed. They deserved it. 

Weekend 3:

Went to Paris for the easiest of the missions, and for a tiny bit of sightseeing while I was at it. What’s the point of this job if you don’t take the chance to harmlessly sightsee? The Señorita was right. If you look like a slightly scruffy - but not scarily scruffy - man and hang around just outside a building within easy sight of the Eiffel tower, grumpily chain smoking, nobody stops to talk to you or wonder why you’re there. I will have to thank her for teaching me how to smoke naturally while getting a minimum of the smoke in my lungs. And King Leonine for providing those non-addictive fake ones in the first place, because ain’t nobody got extra lungs lying around for that. Frustrated conversations with a phone that isn’t actually calling anyone was a nice activity to alternated with.

It was sadly too warm for a trench coat. I think I would have been too obvious in a trench coat, anyway. Maybe if it was colder and I was presenting as female. 

That was how I casually staked out the Tower and watched for an opportunity to stick Prof. Analytical’s little doohicky on it. Apparently it requires no power and will have, like, a symbiotic relationship with the conductivity of the tower’s metal and its existing power sources. It reminds me of that big wooden plaque Theramin created so the Soviets could listen in on American Embassy in Moscow, before he defected and invented the WoooOOOWwwOO instrument used in all the horror movies. Mr. 15 said it won’t hurt anyone, just measure the number of footsteps happening on the Tower at any given time, like a reverse pedometer. He said I could tell you after I’d done it. Maybe as a reward? I double-checked with Analytical and triple-checked with the Countess. I don’t believe in overly trusting one’s boss.

I video-called the inventor of the device so that he could check to see if it was working, when I still had a chance to fix it. When he verified that it did, he asked if I would make fun of him if he squeed and flapped his hands. I said of course I wouldn’t. 

Weekend 4

I saw a man who looked a certain way. He could have been a nice man, but he looked a certain way. So I wrote a letter full of eloquent gloating and defiance, mailed it to a certain prison, and then drank more wine that I should have. There’s too much good wine around here. All different prices, including ones in the intersection of I Can Afford and I Would Make a Food Group of Nothing But This. 

The next afternoon I stumbled hungover, sad, and very soft femme into a nearby bakery that was having a slow day. I talked (and wept) a compassionate baker into teaching me how to make pain au chocolat from scratch. I know someone who likes it.

Weekend 5

I went to my audience with Mr. 16. He’s still got that scar on the back of his neck from the accident, like a blade touched him but vanished just before it cut through. He was a tad jumpy at first, even with his bodyguards a yelp away, and him knowing who I am and who sent me. Though I guess I don’t know the intricacies of the relationships the Numbers have with each other.

He softened when I gave him the magazine with an interview with - and an autograph from - the pro poker player he has a massive crush on. He kept referring to her as “My Queen” and talking about how even though they’ve never met, one day they will and it will seem the most natural thing in the world to get married immediately, and she’ll give up her whole life and come live with him. I listened patiently. I didn’t tell him that I know someone who used to have cybersex with her before the connection amicably cooled. 

He became more willing to accept the documents I’d been entrusted with, and he let me stay for dinner. Way too many courses and I felt like his employees were staring at us, but there was a novelty to it. He was also very happy when I brought out the set of lockpicks I’d been given and I asked for tips on improving my understanding of locks. He went on and on about that too, but I got some useful information out of it. He demonstrated on his massive lock collection. I ended up sleeping over. 

Mr. 15 has my evaluation of 16’s demeanor and well-being now, and you can ask him about that. You might be more interested in knowing that he’s developed a rivalry with a syndicate in the United Kingdom that might spill over into the U.S. Unless it already has. He seems to mostly throw money at problems and focus on amusing himself. 

I discreetly interviewed his staff, as well. Some of them really don’t like him. I don’t know if warning him would do any good. I find him one of those people where you shouldn’t attribute to malice what you can attribute to incompetence, you know? That said, I am uncomfortable about what I managed to glean regarding his relationship with the person I have been assigned to talk to next. In fact, I’m worried. I really am. 

More on this as the story develops. Take care.

Mx. Cavalier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some References/Explanations (I'll let you figure out the others, or you can ask):
> 
> \- Chev mentions nothing about teaching fencing to children, because the idea of enemies using children to get at Chev is far too horrifying. This is also why in Weekend 2 Chev doesn't specify that they were visiting extended family.
> 
> \- In Weekend 4, Chev was triggered by seeing a man who looked too much like Claude, and figured out how to send mail to their abusive ex/abductor. Chev has forgiven Louie and has not forgiven Claude. Both of these are valid. 
> 
> \- For a few months in this 'verse, before Alexander and Eliza got together, Marie Antoinette was Alexander Hamilton's online girlfriend. The real Marie Antoinette LOVED playing cards. 
> 
> \- In case it's not clear, Chev's next weekend will be visiting Pierre, Adrienne, and Lafayette.
> 
> \- "More on this as the story develops" is a very common phrase in Welcome to Night Vale


	27. don't you worry, honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place during the same timeframe as the previous chapter.

Pierre eventually emailed his parents back - separately, but with similar content.. He told them he was happy and safe, and that he didn’t need any infusion of funds to feed himself or anything like that until he returned to Fredericksburg. No, he wasn’t dipping into his savings for his airfare. His friends had a lot of frequent flyer miles. (This wasn’t a lie, but they’d all been donated to charity.) Yes, he was grateful for his parents’ continued financial support. No, he disagreed that their financial support automatically meant he had to talk to them right now. They could withdraw the support if they wanted. No, he didn’t care who did what to whom, or who supposedly loved him more. Yes, he still loved them. 

What was he doing? Oh, just hanging out...

***

Lafayette was spending a lot of time with a lawyer named Cecile-Aimee Renault, and together they were fighting allegations that much of Lafayette’s inheritance was illegitimate and should revert to the state. Pierre did not press for more. It made the couple go quiet and strained just to give that brief summary. 

“It’s not about losing our wealth,” Lafayette explained at one point, while nonchalantly changing Henriette’s diaper. “We’d move right back into that two-bedroom house in Virginia and get ‘real jobs’ if it was for a good cause. It’s about letting it go to an administration we find abhorrent, through entirely unjust means.”

“Ununununun,” Henriette contributed.

“Exactly.” Lafayette reached out for the baby powder, which Pierre handed to him. “Want to watch another episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer after this? While we supervise her crawling?”

Pierre nodded. “We should expose her to as much cheesy yet sophisticated banter as possible.”

***

Meanwhile, Adrienne was spending a lot of time with a lawyer named Charlotte Corday. Over a game of mancala on Adrienne’s set made of a hand-carved wooden board and iridescent glass marbles, she outlined the situation. “When she realized her health was seriously failing, Gilbert’s grandmother decided to turn a piece of land, separate from the main estate, into a family park that will be free to the public. A last thing to leave behind. Complete with playground, bike trail, lovely things like that. She helped some refugees with the right skillset, and their families, come live near there and work on the project. Gilbert and I have plans for other properties we have no need for, so we’ll have work for them for some time.”

“She sounds like a great lady,” Pierre said, moving his marbles with effort. They were both talking quietly, what with Henriette asleep a few feet away. Olympe was in class.

“Do you want me to take the handcuffs off?”

“No.”

“Hold still.” She leaned over and reapplied the lipstick. They’d already done a scene, just for the two of them, but Pierre had refused to be freed of the accoutrements just yet. He half-hoped he could stay this way all through dinner and Lafayette joining them for another round. Adrienne swept her thumb slowly across his lips and then sat back down again. 

He pushed away his shivers. “You were talking about the refugees.”

“Right. Their papers were all in order. Until the Jacobins passed a bill that supposedly makes our loyal employees’ papers NOT in order. Supposedly, they’re a security risk. Including their infant children. I’d be spending a lot more time with you if there wasn’t this battle to fight. They have nowhere else to go.” She sighed. 

“Hey, I’m enjoying getting to spend one-on-one time with you, which I never really got to before, but don’t worry about leaving me alone for a few hours a day. I haven’t gotten tired of having a swimming pool right there, or discussing feminism and intersectionality with Olympe, or of having all this time to read.” Pierre was indiscriminately devouring his hosts’ books, mostly French but some in English, as well as catching up on eBooks he’d downloaded ages ago, plus a smattering of fanfic. 

Adrienne smiled a little, cheered. “This Sunday, all four of us should go on an outing. See the city. Decide where you might want to revisit with Chev, possibly in more depth.”

“I should probably not hold hands with either of you when we go look at the enormous Virgin Mary statue.”

“That would be best. You can take a turn pushing the stroller, how about that?”

“Can we take funny pictures for my Instagram? I won’t post them until after I’ve left for Paris.”

She won the game. Again. “Sounds good to me. We could raid the attic for props. Hats and so on.”

***

Pierre screamed in his sleep one night, and Adrienne jumped up in a panic to go check on Henriette before she realized it wasn’t her. Lafayette ended up walking with Adrienne to verify that the baby was fine. They tried not to wake Pierre, but accidentally left him to wake in an empty bed a few minutes later. They rushed back at Pierre’s plaintive calls asking if anyone was there.

“I’m sorry,” Pierre said when it was all explained to him. “I think it’s like the physical tics. Mostly gone but will always dramatically show up at bad times.”

Adrienne gathered him into her arms. “It’s not your fault. I’m on the hypervigilant side about our daughter, as well. When I asked Gilbert to do counseling, both with and without me, because of grief and stress and how we’d even fought a few times even though our anger wasn’t really at teach other, I learned that I’d been making my world revolve around Henriette more than is good for me. So we hired Olympe.”

Lafayette turned out the light and molded himself against the curve of Pierre’s back. “I still have to tell her sometimes that she doesn’t need to compensate for, for, you see, for my mother’s absence in my life.”

Pierre didn’t have words for that, so he incoherently, affectionately clung to her. 

After a long, tentative silence, Adrienne whispers, “I dream that she dies. And Gilbert is off fighting battles, so he’s not here when she dies. I slept in her room a few times, but I didn’t sleep well, and I had an argument with him claiming he should join me. An argument that I was embarrassed about when I wasn’t sleep-deprived. We put her in our room, and neither of us slept well.”

“Neither of us could manage to get in the mood for sex, don’t forget.” Lafayette sounded amused by that, more than anything. “I don’t know how people in one-room-homes manage, or have managed historically.”

The couple reached across Pierre’s torso to hold hands with each other. “I’m in a basket,” Pierre remarked sleepily.

“You’re very gifted at pillow talk,” Lafayette said. 

“That’s why you keep me around. You’re a complete puzzle, but I’m a nice additional Lego piece.”

Adrienne laughed softly, with a slight waver to it. “You’re a very nice Lego piece.”

“In a basket,” Pierre reminded her. “I get to help Henriette swim tomorrow, right? Physio. In the pool. But not right now, because I’m in a basket.”

“Yes.” Someone kissed his ear. 

***

Lafayette was in the midst of creating a third hickey on a pinned Pierre when Adrienne entered the bedroom. He finished the job before greeting his wife. Ever the craftsman. “Hello, Adri. You know that conference we’re partially sponsoring? On my way back from being thanked at the closing ceremony, could I bring a few overnight guests? I was thinking a formal dinner.”

Pierre had heard about this. Lots of experts talking about solving various global problems. It would be kinda cool to go, but showing up in Lafayette’s wifeless company - Adrienne didn’t want to leave Henriette for two consecutive nights - was a recipe for raised eyebrows. It was too select a gathering for Pierre to just show up on his own. He made a noise.

Lafayette removed his hand from Pierre’s mouth. “Yes, our dear?” Another nice thing about this extended visit was all the time for casual kink as well as formal scenes. 

“I would like that, if it pleases Adrienne,” Pierre said. 

Adrienne put away her purse and lined up her shoes next to the door.  
“Who and how many?”

“Four guests, if they all come: Prof. John Hervey, Dr. Mary Montagu, Dr. Émilie du Châtelet, and Pierre likely remembers Ben Franklin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make this include the dinner party, but I realized that needs most of a chapter and it also pairs well with another upcoming bit of plot. Besides, who can resist that as an ending line?


	28. wish you were here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to say last chapter who the real Charlotte Corday was. From Wikipedia:
> 
> "In 1793, she was executed by guillotine for the assassination of Jacobin leader Jean-Paul Marat, who was in part responsible for the more radical course the Revolution had taken through his role as a politician and journalist. Marat had played a substantial role in the political purge of the Girondins, with whom Corday sympathized...In 1847, writer Alphonse de Lamartine gave Corday the posthumous nickname l'ange de l'assassinat (the Angel of Assassination)."
> 
> Perfect for a lawyer in a modern AU. In fact, I think her nickname survives intact.

“Did you two genuinely take my measurements to a tailor? Because the sugar parents remark was a joke.” 

“A good Italian-cut suit has to be tailored; it’s not our fault,” Adrienne said, handing him a dark blue silk necktie with silver swirls. She hadn’t let him fasten any of the buttons himself or even tie his own shoes, but he got to do this part. “Ideally you would have been there in person for fittings, but we didn’t want to waste time once you arrived. It’s yours to keep, and we will be deaf to any claims to the contrary.”

Pierre went to the mirror to make sure the finished project both looked nice and hid the delicate chainmaille choker with a stainless-steel ring that he was supposed to keep out of sight all evening. Even though he wasn’t wearing something like that constantly, the Chev-thumbprint necklace had been tucked safely in a box in Pierre’s suitcase since Pierre’s arrival, as agreed by all parties.

To have fun during Lafayette’s absence, Adrienne had taken Pierre and Henriette for a long walk and picnic in an actual hedge maze that they actually owned. Lafayette didn’t like that maze in summer because he was allergic to some of the flowers. Adrienne had also shaved Pierre’s legs, elaborately painted his toenails, done a photoshoot involving a Polaroid camera that didn’t show his face but had lots of glitter and streamers, and directed him to go down on her four different, spaced-out times in four different configurations. Pierre joked that the last one was like Cunnilingus Clue: On the floor, being sat on, with a stopwatch. And so on. 

He missed touching her breasts, but she didn’t want her breasts treated sexually while the baby still needed them, and that was her right. As a side effect, Lafayette had developed a not unwelcome fixation on Pierre’s nipples instead. 

For two nights, Adrienne had held Pierre tightly in her sleep, to the point where he’d had to wake her so he could go to the bathroom. She didn’t used to miss her husband so much. By all accounts she’d been fine when eighteen-year-old Lafayette left her behind to spend an academic year with George and Martha Washington. 

(And their foster son Alexander, who apparently was the one who taught Lafayette how to give a good blowjob. Pierre had blurted out thanks the last time he saw Alexander, then realized Alexander’s fiancee was RIGHT THERE behind him, but Eliza just shrugged.)

“Are you okay?” Pierre asked Adrienne now. Her dress was a matching dark blue but had a sketchy, swirly dandelion print, all the seeds scattering. She was very beautiful and looked very tired, though she’d slept well last night.

“Adulthood,” she said. 

***

Adrienne summoned the appropriate amount of hostess-y radiance when their little event began. She kept him close by. Pierre managed, with a mighty effort, not to hum “Be Our Guest”. He avoided making eye contact with the people bustling around setting the table and pouring drinks and so on. His hosts had asked him not to talk much to the staff or any of the guests except Franklin, who he already knew. This was because the cover story for why Pierre was spending so much time sequestered away was that he was supposedly painfully shy and going through stressful personal events. Becoming friendly with Olympe was explained as Pierre pushing himself because he loved Henriette so much. 

_“Also, we enjoy being possessive of you for once,” Lafayette said, smiling, as he took the two pretty clamps out of their box. Adrienne petted Pierre’s hair and said soothing things about how brave he was until he got sufficiently used to the pain for it to be fun. Then Lafayette took advantage of Pierre’s navel stud and added a fine, Y-shaped chain to connect everything. Minutes later, Pierre had to verify for them that this was the good kind of crying._

It was weird to stand by as Adrienne and Lafayette kissed each other and not join in. There were others to greet, though. Pierre did some research after he learned the guest list, so he knew who had done what at the conference. He’d checked, and it wasn’t against the ‘rule’ for him to ask a ‘timid’ question or two. These people were fascinating.

Dr. Montagu, who worked with the World Health Organization, had been sent to observe a project in which female medical professionals from Turkey were providing resources and training to female doctors and nurses to less-stable countries across their borders. Especially in heavily gender-segregated societies, female healthcare providers were able to gain the trust of women and their families to provide assistance men were often unable. She wore a suit and a simple string of porcelain beads around her neck, with matching earrings, which was a fun but dignified twist on the conventional pearls. Her face had marks from a nearly deadly bout of childhood measles that she could have avoided if her parents hadn’t skipped the vaccine. Instead of covering them with makeup, for more than four decades she had kept the scars prominent as a reminder to herself and a message to others. Pierre was too awestruck to greet her other than with a tiny, “Hi.”

Professor Hervey taught political science at Cambridge, and had led a panel discussion on the state of global LGBT+ rights and what governments were doing about it. He was in his early fifties but looked great in that waistcoat. His shirt and pants were loose on his slight frame, but that waistcoat. Pierre wanted that waistcoat. It had dragons on it. The retro glasses weren’t bad either. He said, “Hello there, you must be Pierre.”

“Yes, sir. You must be Professor Hervey.”

“I supposed I must. Enchanté.” He took Pierre’s hand and kissed it.

Montagu rolled her eyes. “John. John no.”

“Hi?” Pierre said, not upset but flustered. Hervey’s ex-wife, a wealthy socialite, had told stories in interviews about her former husband’s affairs with multiple men and women. 

“No flirting,” Lafayette said, in a gentle, airy tone. He was holding the door open for Dr. du Châtelet, genius physicist who’d presented on alternative energy, She just happened to have been Voltaire’s primary romantic partner for years, whether or not they were now. Pierre knew Voltaire had even lived with her and her husband and their children for a while, before fleeing France due to vague and obscure troubles with vague and menacing people. 

Du Châtelet had on a little black dress and comfortable black flats rather than heels, and her hair was up on a twisted French (hah) braid. She and Pierre did the traditional sequence of cheek-kisses for her home region. Pierre knew the number of kisses varied from place to place, so he always let the other person lead. “You must call me Émilie, for we have multiple friends in common, and also I’ve been awash in Doctor this, Professor that...someone called me Marquise, though, I was surprised.”

“You’re a Marquise?” Pierre asked.

“Technically, through marriage, but I prefer not to have that define me. It didn’t come with perks quite like this.” Émilie indicated the grand entryway. Then she stopped and looked at Adrienne. “Not that I’m casting aspersions on you.”

“I don’t feel aspersioned. Is that a word? English all evening will be good for me.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Montagu said. 

“You speak Turkish and Arabic, I think you can cut yourself some slack.” Hervey accepted a drink from a silent young woman carrying a tray. “I’m rather colonial, myself. English and nothing else.”

“Oh, we know,” Franklin said, coming through the door. His role at the conference had been to host a roundtable discussion on how diplomacy should embrace new technology. Pierre squeed and went to hug him.

“Why does everybody do that?” Hervey asked in the background. 

“Hey, I hear you’re doing a lot better!” Franklin said, hugging back.

“I am. How are you?”

“Rattling along. How’s Ada?”

“Great.”

“Friedrich?”

“Great.”

“John Laurens?”

“Living with his boyfriend, you know, Alexander’s best friend. Who really, really looks like Alexander, but I’ve never dared say so.”

“Hah. And Alexander?”

“Newly dad. Works for Treasury. Doesn’t sleep.”

“Do you know how anyone else in the old gang is doing?”

“Sam Seabury officiated Hercules’ wedding, George Washington’s considering retiring to a private practice but nobody wants him to, Meriwether Lewis went on TV, like his face, not a voiceover, Phyllis got published some more, John Jay’s publishing date got moved back again but he seems happy anyway, Aaron’s wife Theodosia’s cancer is in remission, one of Betsy’s quilts got put in a museum, John Hancock got glasses and stopped writing so big, Martha the Tech took me to get my glasses, and Israel got hit by his own mail truck because of a faulty parking brake. He’s okay, but he won’t be able to walk for a few weeks. He’s got worker’s comp.” 

“A very comprehensive report.” Franklin looked at the three staring guests. “We were in a support group.”

***

Over the sumptuous dinner, the conversation ranged from a summary of what everyone had done at the conference (for Adrienne and Pierre’s benefit), the history of the Lafayette estate (for the guests’ benefit), what Pierre was doing with his life (for the middle-aged people’s benefit), and a bunch of funny stories from Franklin (for humanity’s benefit). 

Then over what had to be the fifth course, Émilie said, “Oh, Francesco mentioned meeting you at a party, Pierre. He said he was very impressed by your conversation.”

Both Hervey and Montagu dropped their forks. 

“Are we referring to Francesco Algarotti?” Montagu asked.

“Do you two still exchange Christmas cards?” Hervey asked Montagu, a hint of acid in his tone. “Letters? Eloquent letters? Letters that he liked better than mine? Do you meet up? In Venice? In that little house in Venice? That happy lovely little house in Venice with all the paintings on the walls?”

“How much wine have you had?” Montagu asked.

“Not enough.”

“Sour grapes.”

“Those are sometimes involved in the winemaking process, yes.”

“He’s happy with someone else now.”

Hervey stabbed a bite of food with his fork. “You had two years with him. I had a fucking weekend.”

Adrienne cleared her throat. “Does anyone want to switch to mineral water? Because Pierre is.”

“Oh, right, thanks.” Pierre cleared his throat, too. “I’m on medication for Tourette’s syndrome that I can’t mix with too much alcohol.”

“Why don’t we all switch to mineral water, out of solidarity?” Franklin suggested. “How upset will you be if I make a joke about Perrier?”

“You have Tourette’s?” Émilie asked. “I wasn’t told.”

“If you could see under the table, you’d notice my feet have been doing weird things all dinner,” Pierre said.

Hervey and Montagu were quiet for awhile, focusing on their food. Then during a fruit and cheese course she took a small bottle out of her pocket and said softly. “You forgot this. I was going to wait, but you’re missing your window.”

“Oh god, thank you, Mary.” Hervey quickly took two of the pills. “I’ve been disruptive enough without having a seizure on the carpet. If any of you see me having one, only get me medical attention if it goes longer than four minutes, and don’t try to put anything in my mouth.”

Franklin leaned over and whispered in Pierre’s ear, “That’s what she said. Her orgasms were the talk of the town.” 

Pierre nearly died keeping a straight face.

***

At eleven, with everyone having either cheerfully or apologetically scattered, Pierre went to find Franklin. Lafayette and Adrienne were having a private conversation anyway and had given him their blessing when he explained it was confidential mental health stuff. He noticed Montagu and Hervey making out in an alcove. 

He felt like he should be lighting his way with a candle, to suit the aesthetic. When he got there, he knocked and said, “It’s the echo kid.”

Franklin opened it. “I only called you that once. Come in. Look, the room has a fireplace! I wish it was cold enough tonight to justify lighting it.”

Pierre took a seat in a chair that had carved animal feet. “I wanted to ask how your schizophrenia symptoms are these days.”

“Decent,” Franklin said, taking a matching, slightly larger chair. “At worst, distracting and frustrating. At best, mildly irritating. I’m lucky. I heard through the grapevine that George King is semi-permanently institutionalized now. Goes home for holidays.”

Pierre wasn’t comfortable about Franklin having somehow found that out, since even though George King had been cruel and violent he deserved privacy, but he didn’t want to press the issue. “It’s still only auditory, not visual, right?”

“Right. The key is to remember that these voices are a part of my mind that for some reason manifest as what I perceive as sounds, not thoughts, and as if they aren’t my thoughts. So I try to turn it to my advantage as a way to organize my thinking. Make it a constructive dialogue, without my needing to contribute aloud.” He shrugged. “Hit or miss. But Poor Richard is, at least, a master of dirty jokes. The one I’ve named Mr. Greenback tries and fails to rap. There are a few others, still. Mixed bag.”

“I really admire you.” And without Franklin’s help, finding Chev would have taken longer, plus Pierre would never have met Ada.

“You’re a sensible young man.” Franklin leaned back in the chair. “How about Chev?”

“Not perfect, but better. Prefers that you ask directly. Residual paranoia, you know?” Pierre made a helpless gesture. Suddenly he wanted Chev there. He hadn’t checked in with them this evening due to all the excitement. Chev would have loved the dinner party. Would Chev had worn a suit or a dress? They would have looked great in either. Were they eating enough? They were good at eating nutritiously, but not always good at eating frequently. Were they sleeping well? They’d had a nightmare last week, and all they’d had was texting Pierre and a stuffed clownfish to comfort them. Clownfish are all born male and the most badass one in a group turns female, they said, and it was easier to find a stuffed clownfish than a stuffed parrotfish. 

Franklin nodded. “I understand. You can send me contact info. As long as you’re happy. I hate to cut this short, but I literally just finished drawing myself a hot bath when you arrived, and it’s going to get cold…”

“Of course. Goodnight.” He called Chev and left a voicemail on his way back to the family suite. Then he was Dom-ambushed, and didn’t have time to miss anybody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, Lady Mary Montagu was a badass I never knew about before I made a reference to her in Long Journey to Now. I only found out about her and Lord John Hervey because I was researching Algarotti, and it turns out that those two were rivals for Algarotti's affections. Lady Montagu won out and lived with him for two years. But Montagu and Hervey were friends, too, and possibly lovers, though whether it survived the love triangle I am unsure. In this 'verse it did. 
> 
> But Lady Montagu!!!!!! (I keep wanting to add an e.) First off, which she was a kid she sneaked into her father's library to pursue forbidden education, including teaching herself Latin. When her husband was posted to the Ottoman Empire as ambassador, she became the first European woman to write eyewitness accounts of life there, and by default was the first European to document female spaces in the Muslim world. She recorded how the Turkish women were horrified by the cruel English patriarchy forcing their women to wear restrictive clothing. 
> 
> She also brought back with her the Turkish practice of variolation, which was a specific form of inoculation against smallpox. She herself had a scarred face from surviving smallpox in her youth. Though it was eventually superseded by vaccination, her advocacy saved many lives in the meantime. Lady Montagu also wrote a number of essays arguing for the education of women. Plus there's a painting of her laughing at famous poet Alexander Pope for Nice Guy-ing her. He wrote very wahhh-friendzone-y poems about her, subsequently. 
> 
> Voltaire - remember, Algarotti's friend - wrote nice poems about long-suffering Lady Hervey, a beautiful woman whose husband slept with other women and some men and everybody knew. Aside from being jealous of his friendship with Lady Montagu, Alexander Pope also hated Hervey for being effeminate and bisexual and a trusted advisor to Prime Minister Walpole, and wrote nasty poems about him. So Hervey wrote satire calling Pope deformed and lowborn. So Pope's friend, novelist Henry Fielding, wrote a villain based on Hervey who gets mistaken for a woman in the dark because his skin is so soft. Hervey was never strong, and suffered from epilepsy later in life, but what he lacked in Health he seems to have made up for in Charisma.


	29. ruing the moons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if any of you wanted to read detailed sex in this chapter. I decided I wanted to get to plot things, I couldn't make it sufficiently epic anyway, and unlike the scenes with Friedrich and Chev in Part One, it wouldn't reveal stuff about their relationship with Pierre that will be vital later. ;)

Dear Chev,

If you’re sure you don’t want a driver to pick you up, which would be no trouble whatsoever, then that’s your choice. We look forward to seeing you. I’ve dusted off my gear. There’s a room that’s been used for fencing practice for so long that it used to be used for genuine sword-fighting practice. I am also looking forward to the other thing - in fact, we found a few pink wines in the cellar for you to choose from. :D

I think you’re being a bit overkill with your desire for detail here, but I can understand why you would like reassurance. There isn’t an electric fence around the main property, but the stone walls surrounding us are quite high, and they’re well-maintained despite their age. We haven’t gotten around to putting alarms on individual windows. The doors do have alarms. No hounds, as much fun as it would be to be able to tell someone to release them. 

At night we have two guards for each gate, and two to patrol the perimeter. They are trained to subdue with the least amount of force possible. No killing. They must contact me or Adrienne - or if they can’t, another designated authority - before dealing with anyone they’ve got their hands on. Almost always it would be to turn the intruder over to the police, but this is to sort out misunderstandings, such as the time one of the gardeners was drunk. 

Pierre is extremely safe, and so will you be. I promise. I must end this message now, as I’m in a car on the way home to a dinner party. 

Excited to see you soon,  
M-J.P.Y.R. Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette 

***

“You’re early!” Pierre cried, flinging himself at Chev and kissing them. 

“I’m full of surprises,” Chev said, and kissed him again because they could. 

Chev had never met Adrienne in person before, and was leery of Henriette because even six-month-olds are infants, and therefore highly breakable creatures. Nobody pressured them to act more warmly than they were naturally inclined to, though. They liked these people enough that they didn’t want to fake emotion if they could possibly help it. Lafayette gave them a special handshake that turned into a fist bump. 

Tonight, Chev was going to have to make Lafayette miserable. Even if it was intended to do him more good than harm. They were giving themself until then to enjoy having these nice people like them, and to let Pierre finally get to do something he’d been wanting to try.

“Are you okay?” Pierre asked them, slipping a hand into theirs as he guided them to the family suite. Chev was dragging their suitcase in the other hand. Nobody was allowed to touch their suitcase. Adrienne walked ahead of them, carrying her babbling daughter. Lafayette had needed to run off to talk to a butler or some such person.

Chev gave him a smile that was, well, cavalier. “Wanna see me ignominiously defeat your precious Marquis?”

***

Lafayette wore sleeveless Under Armor to what he called the Ancient Sparring Room of Ancientness. “Nobody else calls it that,” Adrienne informed Chev. She had a camera. Chev had given her permission to film this when Chev had their mask on, as long as it didn’t get posted anywhere. “Nobody else is that much of a dork.”

“I used to have private lessons here. The adults hoped I’d fall over less often in daily life if I had a bit of athletic polish.” Lafayette shook out his jacket. “You’re so much more in practice than I am, I’m hoping for home turf advantage to even things out.”

“And, apparently, your constant maintenance of impressive biceps,” Chev said, raising an eyebrow.

Adrienne laughed. “Hours per week.”

“Working out clears my head.” Lafayette stuck out his tongue, then went back to dressing himself. The two had agreed that the special pants and shoes were overkill, especially if they were going to stick to sabre, which didn’t reward below-the-belt strikes. 

“I know how that goes. Squire, hand me my breastplate.” Chev reached out and Pierre reached into their bag and gave Chev the two protective discs that they slipped into pockets sewn inside the front of the jacket. Back when they did tournaments and didn’t want to reveal anything about their anatomy, they used to be very furtive about this part. 

“Adrienne knows enough about the sport that she can resolve right-of-way disputes,” Lafayette said.

“Squire, my glove.”

Pierre delicately put Chev’s glove on for them. “This is fun. We should base something on this.”

“I’m not going to hit you with a sword without protective gear on, minibon.”

“I meant, like, maybe me polishing things for you. Squire-like.”

“We’ll talk about it.” Chev patted his shoulder. “I am thinking of checking out shoes when we’re in Paris, like one extravagant pair that will need cherishing and almost as much maintenance as the Marquis’ biceps…”

“I will take this glove off just so I can slap you with it,” Lafayette said with mock indignation.

“Squire, my helmet.”

“Let me get the camera on!” Adrienne called out.

The friendly duellists measured out the correct number of paces, saluted, and put on their helmets. “En garde!”

***

Nearly an hour later, Lafayette surrendered. “I was hoping to last longer, but you’re…”

“A well-trained freak of nature?” Chev said asked cheerfully. They took off their helmet and went in for a left-handed handshake. “You put up an excellent fight.”

“It’s a pleasure losing to a worthy opponent.”

“You are both so attractive,” Pierre whimpered from off to the side.

Adrienne herded everyone to respective showers, followed by lunch. Pierre wanted to help Chev wash their sweaty hair, and Chev was fine with that. 

***

The other three, plus Henriette, did a bit of light swimming in the afternoon. Chev declined to join, and let the others draw their own conclusions as to why. Chev needed the family suite to themself for something.

Everyone agreed that the city tour would be tomorrow. Chev asked to tour the gardens, the orchard, and the hedge maze, in the cooler part of the evening. They wondered if Pierre noticed how consistently and firmly they were holding his hand throughout.

***

After dinner, and after Henriette was fed and safe in her crib, came the long-awaited debauchery. Chev received a silky robe to wear over their pajamas: “For aesthetics, and also for you to keep,” Lafayette said. They selected one of the rosé bottles on offer, and accepted a tray of Gouda with slices of pear, and curled up on an armchair in the master bedroom. 

“Adrienne’s in charge of getting Pierre clean and pretty right now. They’re in the bathroom. Here’s a list of kinks Pierre, Adrienne, and I are planning on selecting from tonight. Pierre doesn’t know exactly which ones, so there will be an element of surprise, but this way there will be no unwelcome surprises. He can change his mind, obviously.” Lafayette handed Chev the handwritten list. 

“Why are you showing me this?” Chev asked.

“So you can tell me right off the bat if there’s anything here you wouldn’t enjoy watching, or would enjoy in particular. You’re a part of this.”

“Oh.” Chev felt oddly touched, and reread the list. “Um, if there’s fisting, Adrienne’s fist, please, so I’m not worrying about your massive hands. Uh...affectionate feminization is really great, there’s not enough of people thinking of that as tender and nurturing rather than humiliating - not that people’s kinks are their fault, it’s just an unfortunate cultural trend, you know, especially for…”

“You.”

“Yes.” Chev had a nightmare the other night. A dark basement and tight steel around their wrists, a hand jerking their chin up, a thumb caressing their jaw. A familiar voice. _“Your cock’s just an oversize clit, isn’t it, you dainty thing? Here’s a real one for you.”_

Lafayette’s eyes were very kind, and his tone brought Chev back. “We’ll be sure to highlight that. You know I’m a switch, right?”

Chev picked up a piece of cheese, to play with rather than eat yet. “Yes. Pierre said you let him watch a scene between you and Adrienne.”

“He sat right here. She made me describe my feelings to him. Moment by moment. Would you like him to do that?”

“No, because then he’ll be self-conscious. In fact, if he looks at me too much, I want you to blindfold him. I want the best idea possible of what it’s like when I’m not here.” Chev thought of one more thing. “Don’t make him cry. Even if it’s the kind of crying he likes, it’ll make me want to run in there and take care of him myself, you know?”

“I can certainly empathize. If you’ll excuse me. It shouldn’t be long before the show.” 

***

Pierre never cried, but he wasn’t quiet, even with his mouth full, busy, or covered. He ended up blindfolded less than ten minutes in. 

Chev ended up not getting to any of the refreshments provided. Too distracted. That was fine. They were discreet about touching themself, so as not to interrupt the flow. The bit where the couple sandwiched Pierre between them, like they were really making love to each other and he was an extension cord who doubled as a chew toy, overcame Chev's attempt at saving it for later. 

Then Adrienne was holding and nuzzling the sweetly fucked-out Pierre, bruised and bitten and blissful. Lafayette got up to dispose of the condoms and gloves properly. Chev (feeling like a villain) got up and whispered to him, “I’m sorry, but I need to talk to you privately. Outside the suite.”

Lafayette’s sleepy, sated glow turned into contained alarm. “What, now?”

“Yes, now. Make a non-upsetting excuse. I need to fetch something from my suitcase. Let’s meet in your father’s library in five minutes.”

***

Chev took a deep breath. “Don’t say anything until I’ve had my say.”

“Okay…”

Chev placed a succession of objects on the table. “This is a USB drive from CIA agent James Armistead, who you knew is a CIA agent, so you’re spared one surprise at least. He said you’re in danger, but wouldn’t tell me anything else.”

“What?”

“I said not to say anything until I’ve had my say. This is a sealed letter from Mr. 15, who I’ve only been working for since November, so don’t worry, our friendship isn’t a lie -”

“What the fuck.”

“Laf.”

“Sorry.”

“This is the book you need to break the cipher and read the letter.”

“Why a Neal Stephenson novel? Does he know I like that author?”

Chev poured the remaining objects onto the table, a horrific shower of tiny bits of mangled metal. “And these are all the bugs I found and destroyed with my futuristic bug-finder-and-destroyer device last night when I broke into your home.”

“WHAT?!”

“I wanted to test your security, didn’t want questions, and needed practice. You need way better security, by the way. I’ll give you some tips. Thankfully, I verified this afternoon that your family suite is clean. The parts you’ve worked to keep the most private, actually were. Pretty much everything else wasn’t.”

They had been prepared for Lafayette to be shocked, resentful, or even violent, but they had not been prepared for Lafayette sobbing.


	30. legions out to get me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may have read notes in other fics about a novel of mine that's been going through Development Hell for years, to the point where I've cut my losses and asked for the rights back. I have sent the first 10K words to a new publisher that is specifically seeking genre fiction that is heavy with LGBTQ+ characters, and the submissions editor has replied saying she's looking forward to reading it (a lot of times, they reject you without reading it). So wish me luck. 
> 
> ***
> 
> The chapter titles are taken from several Eliza Rickman songs. One of her music videos really suits my concept of "bittersweet Lafayette aesthetic", and is gorgeous and a wee bit macabre. Check out [ Start With Goodbye, Stop With Hello ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LtEGD1JcMOg).

If it had been Pierre or Reinette, Chev would have known what to do right away. If it had been Ada, they would have been willing to hazard a hug, maybe a joke. They might even have some inkling of what to do with a weeping John Laurens, if for no reason other than seeing a clinically depressed, formerly suicidal friend cry like this wouldn’t have been such a shock. 

But it was Lafayette, brave, dashing, gallant, near-universally beloved Lafayette, crying with the loud and confused helplessness of a lost child. Chev sat quietly, helplessly, until Lafayette started saying things amidst the heaving breaths.

Lafayette told them that the situation was worse than he had told anyone, though Adrienne knew more than anyone else, and he’d told what was necessary to their lawyers. On his eighteenth birthday, he’d received a long-sealed message from his father, telling him about the dark origins of much of the family fortune. A few years into his stay in America, Mr. 15 had started pulling his strings, little favors here and there. No crimes, but no option to refuse. This included facilitating the recovering of Mr. 16 from his car accident. 

“I swear, I had no idea until last month,” Chev said.

Lafayette sniffled. “I believe you. Your work is the least surprising thing you told me. Thank you for...not being someone else, doing this. Thank you that it’s you doing this.” It wasn’t the most coherent, but Chev understood. 

Lafayette told them that Mr. 16 and a few of his people came calling when Lafayette’s mother died, to inform him that a certain promise between Mr. 14 and Lafayette’s father had now been fulfilled. They had the records to demonstrate that when Lafayette was a small child, the family had almost lost the estate and gone bankrupt due to bad investments and his mother’s addictions (and protecting her from ramifications of indulging them). His father had agreed to help the French Numbers with smuggling a particularly valuable shipment to the United Kingdom in exchange for making the debts go away. He was killed when a British gang took it for their own. The Numbers had some sense of honor, though, and upheld the part of the bargain in which the Numbers would not dig this skeleton from the closet…

“As long as his widow lived, I’m guessing.”

“Yes. Now that the Jacobins are pressuring me to admit to any number of crimes, which are all either fabrications or technicalities, Mr. 16 has ‘apologetically’ pointed out that the Numbers could take everything I have, as well. You see, if Adrienne and I continue to resist Robespierre, Marat, and all their...their….”

“Minions? Cronies? Look, do you want some tissues?”

“Cronies. Yes please. There’s a bathroom just outside and to the left.”

When Chev returned, Lafayette was glumly fiddling with the busted bug bits. He mumbled a thank you, took a tissue, and blew his nose. “If we continue to resist, they’ll escalate their accusations. Some of these will hurt others as well, such as the effort to have the refugees we’ve employed deported. We’ve only hired two lawyers so far, because this is all so sensitive. On the other hand, if we give in, the Numbers will frame us for even more crimes.”

“Damn, that must be where 15 got that tactic from," Chev said, trying to sound empathetic. “That’s what’ll happen to me if I tell Pierre what I really do before I can get him authorized as my one confidante, so...don’t tell him. You can tell Adrienne, but nobody else, and if it gets out, bad things will happen to me.”

“Understood. You have my word.” Lafayette folded up the tissue and held it in one fist. “Also there’s a rising kingpin named Bonaparte who’s a rival to the Numbers, and he wants me to work for him. I said no to him once. I’m worried he might try again, and that it will not be a request.”

Chev had to say something encouraging before Lafayette dissolved again. “Hey. We’re going to get through this. Mr. 15 has ideas. Suggestions. He said that’s what they were. Not threats. If they’re threats, I swear I will pour salt in his coffee and various other sundry passive-aggressive stunts. And Armistead went to a lot of trouble to get whatever’s in that memory stick to you. He’s on your side. I’m on your side, as far as it doesn’t get Pierre hurt. You understand.”

“I do. I like you very much, but would regretfully, yet decisively, push you in front of a moving car to save Henriette.” 

This made Chev feel a lot more relaxed. “Are you angry that I waited to tell you? I wanted, uh, I just wanted one happy day.”

“Slightly irritated but mostly glad. It’s one of the things that makes me believe you are not conspiring against me. It’s not just about the job. I assume the messages from James and Mr. 15 aren’t so urgent that I need to deal with them immediately, otherwise you wouldn’t have waited.”

Chev nodded. 

“You found no bugs in our family suite, right?”

“Right. So whoever did it probably doesn’t have access to those rooms. Why wouldn’t the mole report this serious limitation?”

Lafayette gave a sad, crooked smile. “Probably doing this out of fear, not greed. As Alexander said to me once, one way to defy an asshole is to half-ass. I’ll tell Adrienne in the morning. We can see about quietly finding the culprit and deciding what to do next. We didn’t expect the bugs, but some kind of attack on us isn’t a total surprise.”

Something dawned on Chev. “The new kinky rules you’ve asked Pierre to follow - a few are doing double duty. He’s spent most of his time, and all of his solo, most vulnerable time, in the most secure and least-accessible part of your property. He hasn’t eaten anything other than what you’ve chosen and that one or both of you has already eaten. He hasn’t had one-on-one interactions with anyone except your daughter and her au pair, who you trust.”

“She’s had a very recent background check through the organization we hired her through,” Lafayette said. “It’d look very strange to suddenly demand new background checks on people who have worked here for years. Also, it’s not completely strange to have cameras in your baby’s room, if you’re a pair of rich helicopter parents of a special needs child.”

“You win, like, all the metamour awards, in my book.”

“Thank you.” Lafayette shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. A slow-motion blink. “Speaking of taking care of someone that someone else loves too...are you allowed to accept jobs not through your employer?”

“Yes, as long as they don’t contradict Agent rules of conduct. Like I couldn’t do an assassination. Bad for the brand image. I doubt you want me to assassinate anyone, though.”

“Not seriously want. Might daydream about. Anyway, this is hypothetical. It’s not violent. I would say it’s a way to survive injustice. Would it be within your skillset to create a fake paper trail, including fake lab records?”

Chev did their best to sound casual and soothing, because Lafayette sounded very close to crying again. “Probably, especially if you let me collaborate with a particular person I find very trustworthy.”

“Up to you. One scenario ends with Adrienne and I going to prison. I would have a longer sentence than her, but the fact remains. If that happens, we need you to do everything necessary to provide documentation that Pierre is Henriette’s biological father. By that point enough will have gone wrong with our lives that the scandal of having a regular menage-a-trois partner won’t matter to us.”

“But…”

Lafayette’s hands didn’t quite clench into fists, but they seemed to want to. “Therefore, none of the cockroaches that seem to crawl out of the woodwork wanting our money whenever something...something bad...happens to our family, none of them can argue that for some technicality or other, THEY should be the one to get her. Auguste Levasseur, who has been running the estate’s finances for a long time, has set up two generous funds for her, one for raising her and one for her to access as an adult. They’re protected by a legal labyrinth I don’t fully understand, but he says they can’t be seized by the government. He’d be the one who would activate the plan and make sure you’re compensated for your help. He doesn’t know that yet, but he would do it.”

“Why not Adrienne’s parents?” Chev asked. “I thought they were alive. And doesn’t she have a sister?”

“Her parents are old and have mobility issues, her father has just been diagnosed in early stages of dementia, and her sister is the one who looks after them and has enough on her plate.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“Their last visit to us in the States was their last chance to do a long journey. We’ve offered to move them in here with us, but we were advised that living in his own house for as long as he can will be comforting and less disorienting for her father. Instead we visit often and provide financial support, and have remodeled the house so that her mother - who is fine mentally - doesn’t have to climb the stairs and can be safe in the shower. Everyone, everyone either dies young or grows old. They keep doing that. Have you noticed?”  
Lafayette blew his nose again. 

This was getting off-track. “Another attraction of having Pierre have custody is that he lives in America, I bet.”

“Right. He’s a dual citizen. It would be flexible. If there are continued machinations from people on either side who want Adrienne and I to stay silent, even while imprisoned, Henriette would be much harder to get to in America. It’s not impossible for Pierre to be her biological father, as well. Not statistically likely, but not impossible. Condoms aren’t perfect, and other people don’t need to know we used them. We’ve deliberately not done a paternity test because we don’t want documented counterevidence for our claim, if we ever need to make it. ”

“Are you going to give him any clue about this beforehand?” Chev didn’t consider it their place to tell Pierre about this themself, as it involved too many other confidential elements. They could imagine Pierre being pretty mad at them for this. 

“We asked him if he’d be willing to have custody of her if it turned out he was the best option, and he said yes. I did not mention incarceration or violent death.”

“That’s better than nothing, but not the most informed of consent, is it?”

Lafayette shook his head, eyes downcast. His hands were flat on the table.

Chev reached out and patted one of his hands. “I wouldn’t ask for payment, other than any expenses being covered. Bribes and whatnot. If Pierre wanted me to, I would help with her, or try.”

“Thank you.” Lafayette said it twice, once in French and once in English. 

A cuckoo clock nearly gave Chev a heart attack. It was 2 AM. 

Then Lafayette rubbed his face with one hand and said, “I suddenly want peanut butter cup ice cream with additional crushed M&Ms. To hell with healthy eating. Do you want something?”

“Maybe some of that rosé I didn’t get around to drinking. Where does Pierre want to sleep tonight?”

“He said it was up to you.”

Chev looked Lafayette up and down. As a friend to a friend and metamour to metamour, not as an agent to a potential client. “You two keep him for now. I think you’ll need help getting to sleep, and Pierre cuddles have powerful soporific effect.”

Lafayette laughed tiredly and got to his feet. “Rematch tomorrow? Sabre?”

“If you’ll do best five out of nine.”

“Oof, you’re a maniac.”

Chev smirked and got to their feet as well. This was the type of cheering up they knew how to do. “But it’s over so quickly! Best two out of three, but epee? I’ll be gentle.”

“Uh uh. John kicked my butt in epée to the point where I can barely forgive him, despite our deep mutual affection.” Lafayette was more of a sabre specialist who had a passing competence with two other styles, while Chev had a fondness for sabre but was more of a generalist. 

“If he’s kicking your butt while fencing epée, one or both of you is doing it wrong.”

“Touché. Foil?” 

“Bleh, I’m sick of foil. That’s the first one we teach the children and they need to achieve a minimum of skill before learning another style, so it’s been over, and over, and they trip over their feet and mildly twist their ankles and wail…”

The nearest kitchen was small and homey, for ordinary family meals. There was a massive one in a different wing for dinner parties and galas and such. Some of the sets of rooms had been converted into little apartments for the staff who chose to live here rather than commute, and they had their own kitchens, naturally.

“Maybe we should check their rooms for bugs too,” Chev said, sipping from their glass. They’d only had the focus for a taste earlier before getting distracted by the sexy. It wasn’t too sweet. Good. 

“We’ll tell Pierre an excuse for not going out tomorrow, and Adrienne and I can work out a plan. You should pay him some attention. Though take note of where he’s tender.”

It was theoretically possible for Chev and Pierre to hit the town on their own, but given how many people had it in for Lafayette, that sounded like a recipe for getting grabbed off the street. “I was planning makeouts and me showing off my new bikini. I don’t have the biggest sex drive. Used it up tonight, because you three were hot. I’ve heard that chalked up to my lack of much testosterone, but I have more testosterone than Adrienne and that doesn’t hold her back.”

Lafayette smiled in acknowledgment that he’d heard and recognized a joke. He finished crushing his handful of local M&M-equivalents between his fingers. Chev watched in horror and fascination as Lafayette then sprinkled them into a container of imported Ben & Jerry’s. “I’m going to eat this straight from the carton. You’re not going to stop me.”

“The Marquis de Lafayette eats his ice cream however the hell he wants.” Chev had found a whole assortment of different cheeses. Dr. Suriyaren said it was natural and valid to have happy memories associated with an abuser, so Chev didn’t try to block the memory of Claude laying out a buffet of fine cheeses and gourmet crackers and presenting them with a flourish. _”It’s time you were educated, you poor child. I never want to see you eat a sandwich with a processed faux-cheese slice again. Only the best."_

Several bites passed before Lafayette responded. “In that, at least, he still possesses liberty.”

***

Chev woke in the wee hours when they felt the blankets move. 

“Sorry to startle you,” Pierre whispered. He was naked and all sorts of bruise-colors. His hair stuck out everywhere. He radiated contentment. “May I join you?”

“Sure.”

“Can I be big spoon?”

“Sure. Why aren’t you with them?”

Pierre slipped in and tucked the covers around them both, putting an arm around Chev’s waist. “Lafayette’s being really clingy in his sleep and if I try to roll away I smush Adrienne. You let me breathe. Besides, they have each other.”

“You help me breathe,” Chev said, drowsy. They’d not had much time to sleep yet after making sure Lafayette got to bed in one place, and they’d been up much of the previous night being a beneficial cat burglar. 

“Everything’s so perfect, Chevy, I’m know it can’t stay that way.”

“Nothing is really perfect.” _I have to lie. We have to lie. You’re being deceived by those you trust._ “Nothing stays.” _I’m sorry, baby, sweetheart, I’m doing what I can, but in the meantime I have to lie here and lie to you._ “But this is probably not the last time you’ll help me breathe.” _But you are so very loved._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END PART TWO
> 
> Next chapter will place in the first week of October 2017.
> 
> ****
> 
> Napoleon Bonaparte really did offer Lafayette a job after Lafayette was freed from his five years' imprisonment. Lafayette refused to work for someone he perceived as a dictator and warmonger. Fortunately, nothing bad happened.


	31. just a cog in the year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Begin part 3/3!
> 
> I plan to eventually write a separate fic about Chev's birthday party, which will be posted as a crossover with the main Time Out of Mind series.

“So how’d the rest of the not-that-surprising birthday party not-as-stealthy-as-he-thinks Pierre organized for you go? I’m sorry we left early. Marie gets distressed if we stay anywhere longer than scheduled. It’s not that she forbids me or something dumb like that, we leave that for the bedroom when it’s her turn to be in charge, but I didn’t want to overwhelm her.” Reinette and her wife were switches, to the point where Marie had drawn up a schedule, with spaces added for vanilla. Chev was fine with knowing that. Chev had been less happy with accidentally overhearing that one of the reasons Marie wasn’t compatible with Mr. 15 was his “tragic perma-vanilla”.

“No problem. It carried on well without you. Pierre and I did a lot of the cleanup as thanks for Friedrich letting us use his house. I didn't want that many people unnecessarily knowing exactly where we live.” Chev had gotten Pierre to promise to never take any form of taxi directly home, but to be dropped off at a major landmark in walking distance. That one was easy, because between cycling, public transport, and people willing to drive him, Pierre hadn't used a taxi in Virginia or DC for at least a year. They'd also asked Pierre to use a P.O. box at a local post office for all incoming mail rather than allowing it to come right to their building.

“Pierre assumes this is because of what happened to you.”

“I didn’t lie. I just continue to let him think that.” Chev pushed away the guilt. They’d submitted the official request form to Mr. 15 to be allowed to tell Pierre. Twice. Rejected. Twice. Reinette had suggested that Chev tell Mr. 15 that his boyfriend was also friends with Reinette and also dating Friedrich AND ALSO Lafayette’s friend/sub, but Chev was worried that would sound ridiculous and worsen their case. And what if that made Mr. 15 feel threatened by Pierre?

“I’ve got more pens and white-out if you need them.” Reinette tone made it clear that Chev sounded or looked sad, but she had the sense not to say redundant things about the lying-to-Pierre situation.

“Thanks. Are you allowed to talk to me while I do this?"

“As long as I don’t give you answers.” Reinette was wearing a new pair of leather pumps today. She and Chev had gotten into a friendly rivalry over who could amass the better collection of shoes, femme or otherwise. Chev had just bought some Oxford booties that they were going to showcase next Tuesday, when the perfect matching dress came back from the dry cleaners.

Chev was earning their “Knowledge of Law Enforcement” qualification so it could be added to their profile on The Agency’s/Akin Secrets’ Deep Web site. Said profile had gone live two weeks ago, though there was a warning about their inexperience so clients couldn’t complain. They were glad that all their Pre-Law classes weren’t going entirely to waste. They’d mainly had to read up on the international parts. Nobody else would be using the conference room at HQ for a few hours, so they’d been permitted to set up there with Reinette to confirm they weren’t cheating.

Additional, though less weighty, chit-chat occurred as Chev worked their way through the test. When they handed it to Reinette, she put it in an envelope and sealed it, to give to Marquis Unruffled for grading.

As she led Chev out the door, she said, “Since I didn’t go to your party, I thought it was only fair…”

Outside the door, hanging from the ceiling, was a banner that said, “HAPPY 24th MX. CAVALIER! THERE ARE CUPCAKES IN THE FIRST SUBLEVEL REC ROOM. SHAKA HAD NO INVOLVEMENT. HE’S NOT EVEN IN THE BUILDING.”

Chev gave Reinette a hug. “I’ll see you up there after you drop off the envelope, queen of my heart.”

She patted their back. “I’ve got some other stuff to do for the next half hour, but I’ll see you around. There are a few flavors to choose from. Choose any you like.” Her innocuous statement sounded more profound than one would expect.

When Chev got there, they saw why. There were five mini chocolate cupcakes with chocolate frosting, five mini red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, and one large pale cupcake covered in almond pieces. And in tiny marzipan letters, it said, “defy”.

They grinned viciously. Yes, at a cupcake, what of it? _“I am not the ghost that you are to me,”_ Chev sang to themself, under their breath. They unwrapped the cupcake and took a bite.

_Can’t be scared can’t be scared no time but what are they going to do I’m cold what’s happening does anyone know -_

Chew. Don’t choke. Chew. Swallow.

_Shhh, Charlie. Shhh, Genevieve. It’s all right, all of me. A friend who loves me made this. I didn’t have to eat it. I chose to eat it. Just like I chose every almond, sweet, bitter, chocolate coated, savory, baked, raw. Every one I’ve chosen. I don’t have to like it, but I have to not choke._

“Are you okay?” came a timid voice.

Chev paused mid-chew. Not the most dignified. Marie-Louise O’Murphy had emerged from under a table, the remains of the twelfth cupcake in one hand. “I’m just being dramatic about my cupcake. How about you? You don’t look great.”

Louise and Mr. 15 had fought about something yesterday. Nobody else knew what. “It’s fine.”

“No wonder you’re in Admin and not a field agent if you’re that bad at lying,” Chev said. They took another momentous bite of cupcake. Then they decided they’d proved enough and grabbed a red velvet. “If you’re in a huddling mood, may I huddle with you?”

“Um...I guess?”

So Chev joined her in a huddle under the table. “If anyone comes and asks, I’ll tell them it’s a childhood tradition of mine.”

“I’m sorry I ate one of your cupcakes before you came. Madame Persuasive is going to be pissed.”

“There’s no need for her to know. She’s my best friend, not my keeper.” Chev set the vanilla almond cupcake on the floor to focus on the one they actually liked. “You can stop being terrified about me learning what you said that started this icy feud, by the way. While I’m not exactly chill with you having called my best friend and her wife ‘a pair of ungrateful, scheming dykes’...”

Louise winced and looked about to cry again.

“...I realize it’s probably frustrating as hell that ‘Ludovico’ is emotionally intimate with them in a way he isn’t with others. Just don’t kidnap either of them to prove a point.” Chev licked a bit of cream cheese frosting. Louis “Louie” Pontiere (such similar nicknames, whoa) had sent them a pair of socks by mail. The prison knitting club was flourishing, and he was up for parole in a month. Chev wasn’t sure how they felt about that. It wasn’t like with Claude, who could quite straightforwardly go die in a fire. Chev wore the socks, though. The socks were very soft.

“Okay?” She had a drip of frosting on her pencil skirt.

“Anyway, I admit I’m curious about why you were obviously crying a few minutes ago, but I won’t make you tell me if you don’t want to.”

Louise crumpled the cupcake wrapper in her hand, then uncrumpled it. Again. Again. “Why do you care?”

“I think I would have saved a lot of time and bad experiences if someone had sat down with 18-year-old me, clutching a violin in a stairwell with a lot of cash stuffed down my shirt, and asked why I was crying.”

***

“Why were you and Louise under a table in the rec room?” Mr. 15 asked as he gestured for Chev to take a seat across from his desk.

“She was the only person free and willing to indulge my ritual of eating birthday treats while pretending to be hobbits, sir.”

“You’re lucky to be eccentric enough that I don’t dismiss that out of hand.” Mr. 15 sat at his desk and pulled out a folder. “You’re also lucky that a certain Chinese ‘Pirate Empress’, who has returned to our shores for reasons unknown, thinks it’s an auspicious sign that it should be your birthday on the day she started looking to hire someone with your qualifications. She remembers you.”

Oh. Wow. “What’s the job?”

“Nonviolent undercover as a restaurant dishwasher. A few hours. Mainly she needs someone who doesn’t look Chinese - it’ll throw rivals off the scent - and can speak French. The chef and sous-chef are French. She’s got a meeting at the restaurant. Wants a report of what was said. I advise you take it. It’s a good relationship to cultivate.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. 15 handed them the envelope. Lots of envelopes at HQ. Ms. Plenty was vigilant about making sure they were reused as much as possible. “The address for your briefing. Go immediately. I’ll make the call.”

“Immediately?”

“You may stop to use the toilet.”

Chev did, because one never knew what an encounter with a client might hold, and what bathroom options there might be. They were mostly presenting masculine today, and could take off their clip-on earrings, add on the sports bra, and switch to the emergency unisex black loafers they kept in the car if need be. Loafers were a good compromise shoe. Dress them up, dress them down. The clothes made the man/woman/both/neither, and the shoes significantly influenced how far they would get.

With regret, they texted Pierre saying they were covering for a coworker and would likely be home late. Of necessity, Pierre was under the impression that Chev’s workplace was terribly understaffed due to budget cuts and that Chev was putting in extra effort in order to make a good impression for future promotions.

Pierre texted back right away. _Poor Chev! Do what you gotta do. I’ll save a plate for you and do homework while vid chat with Ada. Be sure to hydrate and have a snack. ilu_

In tribute, Chev had some dried apricots and half a bottle of water on the way to yet another money-laundering bubble tea shop. This one was closer to HQ that the one before.

***

Ching Shih looked Chev up and down. “Impressive. Which one are you really?” She wore black, red, silk, pearls, and gold. Was she in her forties? More? Less? She was shorter than Chev remembered, with a trim silhouette, but she filled the room. The man who’d led Chev in and bade them to sit went to stand beside her.

Chev sipped the provided bubble tea. It was still good. At least people were getting a tasty side effect out of all this crime. “Which what, Empress?”

“Man or woman?”

“Which one are you, a person or a human?” It was a gamble, but she’d liked a bit of deferential snark last time. Besides, that was one of the few areas Chev needed to set boundaries.

She raised her eyebrows. “I see. Well, that’s good for us. It’s a male-heavy kitchen and a woman might be harassed, or at least draw unneeded attention. Tell me what your boss told you.”

Chev did, and added, “I took your advice, by the way, and thank you.” They’d made a quick pit stop for gas and a bag of mixed nuts. They took it up and held out an almond.

“I remember.” She made a “come on, don’t keep me waiting” gesture, and smiled briefly when they ate it. “Be as determined in this task, and it should be very simple. Cheung Po Tsai here is my right-hand-man. He will meet you here at three o’clock sharp tomorrow. My people will take care of your car. He will give you a uniform and take you to the restaurant. Private dining room. Nothing very serious will be discussed, but these pleasantries sometimes become hostile. Cheung will give you a further list of key, potentially relevant words to listen for.”

“We made worthwhile of one of the dishwashers to declare sickness, and worthwhile of the manageress to allow you taking his shift.” Cheung put a bundle wrapped in brown paper on the table in front of Chev. “You can wear fake facial hair as a light disguise if wished. We have a selection if you do not have yours. Go to the bathroom and try a uniform on, in order for we have time to alter it, if not fitting.”

It fit.

***

To be realistic, Chev had to start at the beginning of the shift, 4 PM, despite the dinner not taking place until 7:30. They didn’t complain. They knew every cool-sounding occupation had long stretches of not-cool tasks. The work itself was fine. They did the dishes at home whenever Pierre did the cooking/foraging, and they’d done them every night for Yelisaveta and Claude, respectively, as part of the exchange for them letting Chev stay. (How was Yelisaveta? Chev should check soon.)

The pace was what took getting used to. Slow at first, then faster and faster as more customers came in. Actually it was probably better than Chev did this for three hours before game time, to get into a rhythm with the dishes, and to get to know the dynamics of the kitchen. They’d smoked one of those fake cigarettes just to hang out with a few of the smokers on break and listen to chitchat. Some of it was in Spanish, but Chev’s combination of French and experience was juuuuuuust good enough to pick out the gists. Everything seemed innocent enough among the little guys, so to speak.

It was a small, exclusive little restaurant, and the dishwasher’s station was only half-walled from the kitchen rather than in a separate room. They learned to pick out the voices of the executive chef and the sous chef, ignoring everything else. At 7:30, exactly, the chef said, in French, “That woman is here.”

Chev listened and watched, and listed and washed. They knew it was Table 4 and paid attention to each order. Fine. Fine. All normal.

Then a server declared that someone at Table 4 wanted the big fruit and cheese plate. Chev had examined the menu beforehand and knew that it was meant for sharing. Then the chef said that it had to be different, remember. To not forget the munster.

Chev knew that munster was not the kind of cheese you had with fruit. It had a strong smell, a strong flavor.

The server left with the plate. Chev turned off the water and walked as casually towards them as possible. There was a bottleneck between the kitchen and the main dining room, in the form of a narrow passage, and it slowed someone down if they were carrying a tray.

Chev ran up to the waiter and touched his arm. The key to selling this whopper would be supreme confidence and a sense of authority. “Wait.”

The server frowned. “What?”

“I’m an undercover health inspector, and you’re about to serve an unpasteurized cheese to my undercover partner at Table 4. The sale of unpasteurized dairy products is restricted in the state of Virginia. You should know that.”

He gulped. “I...I didn’t. I really didn’t.”

Chev softened their harsh gaze. “I get it. You’re having a long night, and it’s really the chef’s responsibility, not yours. Tell you what. Hand the plate to me. Go take your mandated five-minute break. I saw you haven’t had yours yet. I’ll go quietly to my partner and make a report, tell her I caught it in the kitchen, and that it was solely the chef’s fault.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Just doing my job.”

It might have looked weird for one or two people that Chev was carrying a tray while not in the right uniform, but they acted like they had no idea it was weird. This kept the looks from reaching the critical mass where other people start looking to see what everyone is looking at. The private dining room was upstairs. When at the top of the stairs, briefly alone, Chev sniffed the cheese.

It smelled like munster, all right, but it also smelled like bitter almonds.

Chev opened the door. Ching Shih and her “right-hand woman” sat facing the door, and they saw Chev before the two men did. The men turned and stared at them, though, to see what the women were staring at.

Chev used her ‘private citizen’ name instead of Ching Shih, which was her ‘pirate name’. “Ms. Shi Xiang Gu, I have misgivings about this dish.”

“Come closer and show us,” Ching Shih said calmly.

Chev did, and pointed. “It’s against all the rules of cuisine to put that cheese as part of this dish, and a fine chef like the one here would know better. Especially since it’s...not like it should be.”

“Perhaps it’s a special favorite of Mr. Glasspoole’s,” Ching Shih said. “In which case he should have the first bite.”

The businessman was nearly frozen with horror. “Um, I’m lactose intolerant.”

“Oh dear. What about your associate? You too? Strange that you should have ordered it, then.” Ching Shih gave a barely perceptible nod, and the woman beside her whipped out a pair of gigantic knives from parts unknown. “Very quiet, knives are. Guns are better at a distance, but they would frighten the people below. This room is soundproofed to human voice, as you promised, but not to gunshots. Cixi is particularly skilled with knives. She cuts off the left ear of those who disobey me, as their ears are clearly doing them no good. Imagine what she does to people who do worse.”

“Eat that food or eat my blade,” said Cixi. The line was a tad cheesy, but that in and of itself was appropriate. As time slowed down from all the adrenaline, Chev noticed that she was wearing earrings that looked like tiny Pekingese dogs.

Ching Shih made eye contact with Chev and mouthed, “Go.”

***

_To the Clever Cavalier,_

_The rest of your fee is now in your bank account. Mr. 15 has told me that you made it home safely, and for that I am glad. Don’t scrutinize the news coverage with dread. There is no trace of that bearded supposed health inspector. Don’t worry, we didn’t hurt anyone not directly involved and intentionally conspiring against us._

_You went above and beyond. My stays in your country will always be brief, but nevertheless, I have influence in many places. In need, call the number below and say…_

“Are you busy?” Pierre asked, interrupting Chev reading the email on their phone. They quickly closed it.

“No, what’s up?”

Pierre lay lengthwise across their shared apartment’s couch and put his head in Chev’s lap. “You remember that you’re getting a tattoo in two hours, right?”

“Aside from that, not busy.” Pierre was going to sit and keep them company while they had their scar filled in to make it less noticeable.

“Weren’t you pondering maybe getting another one, since there’s that Breast Cancer Month special on chest tattoos for people who’ve had mastectomies and reductions?”

“If I don’t completely hate the experience of getting the first one.”

“Wanna brainstorm? I’m tattoo-minded right now.”

Chev ruffled Pierre’s hair. “Yeah, okay. No names, though. Names are dangerous.”

“We all know how you hate danger.”

“Yup. Loathe it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheung Po Tsai was Ching Shih's real right-hand man and second husband.
> 
> Robert Glasspoole was Ching Shih's most high-profile hostage when she captured a British ship, freaking the hell out of the British Empire. Chinese?!?!? WOMAN!?!?!
> 
> Dowager Empress Cixi was a controversial figure who lost to the British on many fronts and made a lot of other mistakes, but also made some good reforms in an effort to propel the country to something resembling a constitutional monarchy. It is undisputed that she loved Pekingese dogs. She gave them as gifts to foreigners, including Theodore Roosevelt's daughter, and she banned practices that intentionally stunted the growth of puppies to keep them cute. I wanted to get another interesting Chinese woman in there.
> 
> There's a cultural Easter egg for you. Or perhaps a cultural red money envelope?


	32. hook, line, and sinker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've hustled towards this chapter because my desire to write this development was the genesis of this fic in the first place. I finally got to it yassss.

Last year, Columbus Day weekend, Pierre had gotten to see _Bly: An American Musical_ on Broadway with Alexander, courtesy of Lafayette. This year, Pierre got to see _Candide: A Cynically Optimistic Musical_ on off-Broadway with Friedrich, courtesy of Francesco. Rather than a road trip like last year, Friedrich found them a cheap flight to NYC, and spent some time showing Pierre around the city. It was approximately their second anniversary of the first time they went on a real date.

Meanwhile, Chev was spending some awkward bonding time with their parents. Pierre himself had started talking to his parents again, but wasn’t ready to see them. It would have been tricky anyway, as his father had permanently relocated to France and his mother was splitting her time between work and the process of selling Pierre’s childhood home. She said it was too big for her now.

After seeing the musical (Pierre could never love any show as much as he loved _Bly_ , but he loved it a lot), he and Friedrich had dinner with Voltaire. Friedrich was gently amused at Pierre’s enthusiasm for this.

Pierre was already a bit tired when they got back to Virginia. Good tired, but tired. A lot of emotions. He didn’t want to turn down a bit of bondage and sense-deprived tickling, though, and that took up much of the night. “The Baron” hurt him in nice ways, and kissed him loose-limbed through a shared finish. He’d said “I love you” again and again like it was a tic, like he couldn’t help it. 

Pierre woke in early still-dark hours. Friedrich slept heavily and wasn’t disturbed. After peeing, Pierre went to the kitchen. There was a pile of Christmas catalogs (already?) that Pierre idly leafed through while sipping from his glass of ice water. 

Then one page of a handwritten letter fell out. It must have accidentally gotten mixed in. Pierre didn’t mean to read it, really he didn’t, but he noticed it was the same word puzzle from Chev’s activity book. The one Chev got upset about Pierre taking without permission while they flew to France. Pierre didn’t know Friedrich liked word puzzles too. Maybe that was another fun thing they could do together. Pierre would just take a glance at it, see how good Friedrich was. See if Pierre could remember, if the Neuralizine held onto it like it would a real language.

The moment Pierre scanned it, the letters rearranged themselves so quickly in his head that he could barely perceive that it was enciphered at all. He then realized that it was written in German. However, it was the same story: a few seconds of recognition before his mind drew out the meaning and dove into that previously-frozen stream.

_...You’re definitely doing far better these days, but I maintain that you would benefit from a partner’s support and also therapist. One of the ones who will prioritize confidentiality over reporting the sort of things you got up to as my assistant and also while working with Monsieur Fifteen. I think by this point your mental health is more in danger than the risk of being arrested for things so far away and so long ago. There are times, brief moments, when I see in you that young man who lost control and beat a man to death..._

Pierre stopped reading. His heart pounded in his ears. Very quietly, he went back into the master bedroom, got dressed, repacked his bag. He wrote his own note and placed both it and the letter on the pillow beside Friedrich, still warm from Pierre’s head. The note said, “I will give you a chance to explain, and you will have a chance to ask me to explain, but I need time. I’ll call.”

There was one person who deserved a warning. Right away. Well, once Pierre had walked a few blocks away from Friedrich’s house. Through the dark before the dawn. 

***

_“Bonomo, smettila di chiamarmi la notte!”_

“Francesco?”

“Oh, is this Pierre? Sorry. My brother forgets time zones when he’s impatient.”

“I’m sorry to call you at this hour. Are you alone?”

“I left the bedroom to not disturb Fritz. What’s the matter, my dear? You sound upset.”

“Fritz is some kind of retired criminal. Like, I think a major criminal. Like a mob boss or something. And Friedrich - Friedrich used to work...Friedrich used...used to…”

“Sweetheart. Breathe. Friedrich would never hurt you. In ways you don’t like, I mean.”

“You need to believe me.”

“I do believe you. I’ve known for a long time.”

“What?”

“Both of them are reformed, Pierre.”

“They’ve killed people. Have you?”

“Never. I’ve only got speeding tickets and a few pirated films. I grew up in Mafia territory, though. One learns to compartmentalize. Are you going to report them? I assume you found out by accident.”

“I’ll keep this between us right now. I don’t know what to do. I want to go home. Chev is away and Reinette is away and I really don’t want anyone else who lives nearby. And I have a goddamn fucking shitty driving phobia.”

“Find somewhere safe and bright. Maybe a fast food place? I think there’s a 24-hour McDonald’s near there. I remember seeing it on a visit. Get a milkshake or something. I’ll come get you and help you sort it out.”

“You live nearly two hours away.”

“What’s another speeding ticket? I won’t tell anyone where you are, just go and be safe and don’t panic and run off, darling.”

“Thanks, but I can’t wait that long. I’ll call for an Uber. I haven’t done it in ages, but I still have an account and the app and everything.”

“If you insist. Call me again when you’re home, and don’t do anything out of panic. Rest and sleep and reevaluate when you’re calm and not so tired.”

“I promise. _Grazie._ ”

***

His Uber ride showed up twenty minutes later. Pierre was done crying by then. The car was a white Honda, vanity license plate that said RAREBYT, profile on app gave him decent reviews except for a tendency to be late, and named him CHAZ DODGSON.

“N-name?”

“Pierre.” The needed digital maneuvers occurred.

“You alright?” Chaz asked when Pierre climbed into the backseat. A young man himself. Maybe a grad student earning extra cash. Then Pierre noticed his t-shirt peeking through an unbuttoned jacket. It had a bunch of math equations with little hearts and question marks added, and a caption saying “My normal approach is useless here.”

“Breakup.”

“T-That’s rough.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“F-Fair enough.” The stutter was pretty consistent, then.

Pierre was so occupied in his own thoughts that it took him longer than it should have for him to realize that they shouldn’t be on this lonely country road, beside a grove of trees. “Hey, you’ve either got the address wrong or the GPS is screwing up.” Pierre turned on his map app and showed him.

Chaz took the phone and examined it. “This, t-this is exactly where I am supposed to be.” He honked the horn. 

Suddenly, there was a man on each side of the car. Both had guns. “What?” Pierre asked weakly. This was all a nightmare. He hadn’t gotten up to go to the bathroom at all. He was still asleep. Only explanation.

The driver scrolled the window down and handed Pierre’s phone to one of the men. He twisted around and said, placatingly, “They’re just, j-just some private eyes, gonna ask you a few questions about people you know.”

Beyond his gut feeling, Pierre had additional reason to doubt this when the car door opened and the other man grabbed his coat collar to drag him out. He shouted to the driver, “They lied to you! I haven’t done anything, I don’t know anything, this is a kidnapping! Please!”

“Facedown on the ground, hands on your head, mouth shut,” the man growled. He helped Pierre along with a few shoves. “We don’t need you all in one piece, boy.”

Pierre could hear Chaz. “Isn’t that a bit much? He’s unarmed and, t-t-teeny tiny. It’s like using a club on a, a bunny.”

“That’s not your concern,” said the further-away man. “You’ve got your alibi back.”

“You’re not, you’re not going to really hurt him, right? Like not r-really.”

“No, it’s just a bit of theatrics.”

The one closer to Pierre joined in. “For feck’s sake, take your shonky taxi and get going. Go have a tea party with some little girls.”

Pierre found their accents vaguely familiar, but he wasn’t in a position to remember where from. As the argument raged, though, he mustered an idea. As he was getting dressed, he’d put back on the necklace that had Chev’s thumbprint. By definition, it was a completely unique pendant, and Chev knew how much Pierre adored it and would never be careless with it. 

Now he cautiously moved his hands towards the back of neck. When nobody yelled at him, he quickly undid the clasp. He let it fall to the ground and nestle in the grass. _I was here. I found you once. Now it’s your turn._

Then came the duct tape in all the standard places, confiscation of his glasses, and a hood over his head. Then came being tucked into what Pierre supposed was a car trunk, but he could hear his abductor’s voices quite clearly as they spoke in a language Pierre didn’t recognize. Both were white, which reduced the probabilities, but not by much. 

Maybe it was one of those open car trunks that are just separated from the back seat by a sliding screen. At least that would reduce his chances of suffocating. While he was counting his blessings, he was glad he wasn’t currently thirsty and wouldn’t need a bathroom for a few hours. And that he’d set his phone to lock after one minute of inaction, ever since Jemsa accidentally caught him sexting and starting groaning for brain bleach. And that he’d used up a lot of his tears already.

***

Time had passed. Movement had happened. Pierre was in a chair. Pierre was connected to the chair. Then the hood came off. His glasses were put back on for him.

He was currently facing the man with a big mole next to his nose. Pierre dubbed him Moleface, for convenience of thought. Moleface had been the one who pulled Pierre out of the cab. Moleface sat in front of a blank, grimy white wall, and Pierre had no clues about the rest of the room. He could feel a hand on his shoulder. Pierre dubbed its owner Touchy. 

Moleface said, “This doesn’t have to be so hard, Pierre. We chit chat, you share, everything’s ace. Have to make sure certain people won’t interrupt, you see. Do you know this man?” He placed a photo on the table.

It was Lafayette. Walking down the street.

Pierre stared. And stared. Then he felt fingernails digging into the back of neck. “Uh. I’m racking my brain. Don’t remember seeing him, though I guess maybe I might have at some point?”

Touchy slapped him. Not enough to damage. Enough to sting. Moleface put another photo on the table. It was from Pierre’s Instagram account, a whimsical picture featuring Pierre, Lafayette, and Adrienne all perched on an old stone wall in matching sunglasses, drinking from identical teacups. Chev had taken it.

“It’ll be worse next time,” Moleface said calmly. “How about this woman and these three men?”

They had a photo of Friedrich, which wasn’t that surprising now. They had a photo of some fortysomething guy in a tailored suit that Pierre genuinely didn’t recognize, but Reinette was beside him, writing down something he was saying. Huh? There was also a picture of Chev. Masculine-form Chev. What. The. Fuck.

But love is love is love.

***

Pierre had never cared much for the reverse-prayer tie, palms together and arms folded behind back. He and Friedrich tried it once, then abandoned it when Pierre expressed his distaste. No safewords this time. Instead, a rope around his wrists, connected to a pipe from the exposed ceiling. If he stood on his utmost tiptoe, the tension was bearable. If he didn’t, it wasn’t. 

“Don’t try to rest your feet flat on the step stool,” Touchy advised. “Shoulders’ll pop. Can be fixed without much hassle, but the fixing’s no fun.”

They were in a concrete-floored room without windows, with the interrogation table in one corner, a two-person tent in another corner, a portable toilet like at fairs in another corner, and incongruously, a mini fridge and microwave in the last one. Pierre was in the center of the room. On exhibit. Photographer’s spotlights on him, in his eyes. They’d taken his glasses again. He couldn’t read their facial expressions.

“Funny story: loads of your country’s higher-ups have spent a lot of time and effort arguing that sleep deprivation doesn’t count as torture,” Moleface said. He was using the interrogation table as a desk. “Close your eyes more than a blink, we’ll do what we need to stimulate you. Don’t piss yourself. There will be opportunities to go. Only thing you’re allowed to say is when you’ve decided to be helpful.”

“Helpfulness leads to food and sleep,” Touchy said. “You’ll get enough water to keep from fainting. You’ll have to earn any more than that. Got it?”

Pierre nodded. Breathed deep. _Loves, please hurry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I didn't mess up the translation, Francesco answered the phone with, "Bonomo, stop calling me at night!"
> 
> That's the only question you had, right?


	33. drop it down to the bottom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been enjoying all the comments. <3
> 
> Please excuse the liberties I take in this chapter with how the Uber app works, especially its password recovery.

Chev got the call from Francesco shortly after sunrise. They listened, thanked him, requested he keep it quiet for now. They had the presence of mind to leave a note for their parents on the dining table: “I’m fine but I’m needed”.

First order of business: go home and see if Pierre was simply asleep or in a slump and just happened to not be answering his phone for whatever reason. 

Second order of business: WHAT THE HELL, FRIEDRICH?

But not now. Chev had to focus on driving as quickly, yet legally, as possible. There was likely to be some illegality to come.

***

Pierre wasn’t home. Chev checked in closets and under the bed just in case. Pierre’s phone wasn’t here, either. Pierre’s bicycle was downstairs, covered in fallen leaves. 

The expected call came. “Chev? Have you seen him?”

Chev lay back on their bed, boneless. “No, Friedrich, I haven’t. I got home ten minutes ago. Could you please explain to me how Pierre ended up finding out about your previous career, and to the point where he was so upset he ran off into the night?”

“How do you - mmmmmmmm - how do you know about that?” Shocked and defensive, two emotions Chev had never associated with the man.

“Apparently Pierre was worried Francesco might be in danger. Contacted him. Francesco tried to talk him down, get him to wait in a safe place for pickup. Pierre insisted on taking an Uber. That’s the last Francesco knows.”

“I don’t have a fucking clue how. Well, I know how, but not HOW.”

“Explain.”

“He found a letter mmmmmm, a letter Fritz wrote me, right? Encrypted.”

“It seems weird that Pierre’d deliberately invade your privacy like that, but he is good at word puzzles, maybe he thought it was a game?” That sounded weak to Chev’s ears, but it was all they could think of.

“It was also in German. I realize cognates exist, and translation dictionaries, but how the hell does that account for...”

Chev breathed in their nose and out their mouth. “Marie’s etiquette for solving jigsaws is to put aside the pieces that don’t fit anything at all, save them for later. Let’s look at pieces that might fit things. And any telling gaps.”

“Right.” There was a change in Friedrich’s speech patterns. It got faster, more clipped. “Let’s do this face-to-face. You stay put. Don’t let anyone other than me in.”

***

While Chev waited, they called Ada. A phone call was best for speed and authenticity. She answered it immediately. In a cyberpunk world where elective biohacking and technological augmentation were possible, Ada would probably have incorporated her phone into her physical form. She only turned it off for class (now a moot point), during a movie/play/concert, on planes, and at funerals.

“Why does everyone forget I'm nocturnal?" she groaned.

Chev hoped she remembered the code phrases they’d set up together. “Sorry, I’m overexcited. I found a fantastic Groupon deal for paintball, and I wanted to invite you and Charles.” _You two might be in danger of violence._

The slight, suppressed waver in Ada’s voice assured Chev that she remembered. “Neat. Have you invited anyone else?” _Do you know who’s after us?_

“Not yet. Pierre’s making up his mind, but I don’t think he’s interested.” _I don’t know where Pierre is, but I suspect abduction._

“I played paintball a few times with Uncle Percy. I think Charles would be good at it, if he can get away from Georgiana and the baby.” _Charles and I can go to Percy Shelley’s empty summer house, to which I have a key and wifi password and a standing invitation to drop by just like my dad did. Charles’ wife and child can go stay with her family._

“Make sure you consult him.” _Don’t be alone._

“When do you need to know for sure?” _When should we go into hiding?_

“If you don’t hear from me by Thursday, you contact me, okay?” _If you don’t hear from me within three hours, go._

“You want some pointers on paintball technique?” _Want my help?_

“Yes, please.”

***  
Chev also called Reinette. They said, “Queen of my heart, remember last Halloween? Pierre and I were just talking about it. Also, would you like to join us for pancakes?”

She said, “First of all, you two, seriously? Be right there. I need to hear this.” None of this was pre-established. She was their best friend.

***

When Friedrich arrived, Chev offered him toast and coffee.

“Not in the mood, but thank you.”

“I’m not in the mood either, but I figure it’s a good idea to have some calories to work with.” 

“You’re a sensible young person. I’ll abstain.” He took a seat at the table and placed a piece of paper on it. Chev munched gingerly while they examined the paper. It was the standard cipher used within the Agency, harking back to when Friedrich was associated with it. Chev could slowly but surely sight-read it by now. Yes, definitely German.

“I called Reinette,” Chev said. 

“Good. We can’t be myopic enough to think that this is necessarily just about you or me. It could be about her - she’s Mr. 15’s right-hand woman.”

“What about Lafayette?” Chev asked. They drank their coffee black, for once. No time for sweetness. 

“Shit, Pierre needs better luck in partners,” Friedrich sighed.

Chev suddenly choked on a bite of toast. Friedrich pounded their back. “Oh my god. Oh my god. This is my fault. Pierre caught a glimpse of my decryption practice when we were on the plane. I was asleep. He must have learned it then. I didn’t think...I know he’s pretty much a genius but that much?” 

“He doesn’t speak German. We haven’t accounted for that. Also, if we’re going to start with the regret and self-loathing now, it’s going to get in the way. Waste of time. I have plenty of raw material of my own.” Friedrich looked at the letter again. “Did that practice of yours have any important information?”

“No. Reinette just copied down some random stuff about the concept of the Triple Goddess in storytelling.”

The woman herself showed up not too long after. She’d packed a bag, as if expecting to perhaps stay for the night. “Glad you warned Ada. Once she can set up a secure line, she’s happy to start teleconferencing. I told her to go ahead and run.”

“Why?” Chev asked.

“Hi, Friedrich.” Reinette took out her phone and clicked on an app. “Charles made these customized little trackers disguised as key chains. I gave Pierre one for his birthday, given how much danger he’s in and Chev not yet authorized to tell him. Told him that it’s just so you can find your keys at short range by syncing it to your phone, which you can. There are commercially available products that do the same thing, so he didn’t get suspicious.”

“You didn’t tell me,” Chev said.

“I knew you’d be mad, given how you are about privacy.” Reinette was perfectly matter-of-fact.

Chev allowed themself to feel it in full force, just for a moment. “I am, but this isn’t the time. Packing it up, putting it aside. Anyway, there must be something wrong with it, otherwise you’d have told us that you know where he is.”

“Yep. Those trackers are really hard to destroy. Waterproof. Shockproof. Heat-resistant. You basically have to hit one repeatedly with a hammer, and that’s assuming you’re sufficiently familiar with that type of tech. Pierre’s has been destroyed. So yeah. Given their association, how useful Ada is, and how completely defenseless she is in the physical realm, I told Ada to run and hide.”

****

Lafayette was unavailable, so Chev talked to Adrienne.

“I’m thinking of Pierre’s upcoming birthday,” they said. _Pierre’s gone, under suspicious circumstances._

“It slipped my mind,” she replied. _I haven’t heard anything._

“You don’t have any ideas for gifts? _Let me know if you do._

“Not right now, no.” _I will._

***

Reinette sent Marie to go spend the day with her ex-husband, at work or otherwise.

“Really?” Friedrich asked. 

“Mr. 15, to my knowledge, has two soft spots, and they are Marie and Reinette.” Chev said. They wanted to pace, but they didn’t know what lay ahead and didn’t want to tire themself out. Everyone was waiting for Ada to set up at the cabin, so she could get started on tracking their best lead: the Uber ride Pierre called for. 

“It’s not like he’s not fond of Louise, but poor girl does get held at arm’s length.” Reinette had taken it upon herself to wordlessly offer Chev the chance to be held on the couch. They took it. They were a bit miffed about the tracker thing, but it had been useful, plus Chev needed to jettison unhelpful anger to make room for important anger. Friedrich had started fixing the drippy kitchen faucet. To be doing something. To not be screaming and screaming. 

“Glad you’re not mad at her anymore. What explanation have you given Marie? And him?” Chev didn’t want Mr. 15 knowing what was going on, just yet. They didn’t feel like dealing with him right now. If they ended up needing his resources, or thinking he was involved, then they’d take that step. 

Reinette put a comforting hand on their upper arm. “I told her I needed to go do something potentially dangerous and that she might be vulnerable for the duration. She accepted that. She can tell him whatever she feels like telling him. He would probably accept her simply saying that it’s the Etiquette to spend Columbus Day together.”

Chev contemplated a certain option that none of their allies knew about. But if you don’t know whether you’re fighting a normal fire or a grease fire, you shouldn’t pour a barrel of water on it just yet. 

***

Hours (and lifetimes) later, Ada had a secure link running from her hideout and could teleconference with them. Francesco had unavoidable obligations, but she managed to exchange emails with him that told her what she needed to know. 

“Are you and Charles going to be safe there?” Reinette asked.

“He’s occupying himself setting booby traps all over the place. For him it’s like stimming, but extra useful. The cabin’s small enough that he’s constantly in earshot.” Ada was completely cocooned in blankets except for her head and hands. Maybe the heating wasn’t great. “So the good news for us, though bad news for people in general, that breaking into the Uber database is like breaking into a storage locker made of papier mache and balsa wood. I will have to take a little time putting the code together, though, to make a clean job of it. It’s not like in the movies. So maybe like breaking into a storage locker of papier mache and balsa wood that happens to be in another city. Easy, but gimme a bit to reach there.”

“We understand,” Friedrich said, so stoic as to almost be monotone. 

***

Forty minutes later, Reinette asked, “What if we just tried to log in to Pierre’s account?”

Ada froze, Cool Ranch Doritos halfway to her mouth. (She claimed Doritos were traditional hacking food.) “I feel really. Really. Stupid.”

“Nah, it’s alright, that’s what Admin is for,” Reinette said, sitting up. “We help the talent be their best and most efficient in ways they might not realize on their own.”

“I was caught up with the fact that Pierre’s phone isn’t currently connected to 3G or wifi and that I can’t access it, didn’t think about the cloud,” Ada said, an edge of misery to it.

Reinette waggled her finger at Ada. “Seriously, you’re amazing, you’re fine, chill out. Keep going. We’ll attack on all fronts.”

Chev downloaded the app, Friedrich and Reinette peering over their shoulder. “Pierre’s the type to have secure, hard-to-guess passwords, but between us maybe we can handle the security questions,” they said.

WHERE WERE YOU BORN?

Chev put in “Paris”. Wrong. Then they tried “France”. Also wrong.

“Maybe he put in the hospital, or street, or something like that,” Reinette suggested.

Friedrich asked, “Do we know if he was actually born in Paris? We know he lived the first seven years of his life there, but was he born there?” 

Chev thought for a moment. Chev thought about where Pierre usually went for his birthdays. As the page would not allow diacritical marks, they typed, “Isle of Rhe”. No. 

“Ile de Re”, though, that worked. 

“Damn,” Reinette said in admiration.

There was a second security question, though: WHERE DID YOU MEET YOUR SIGNIFICANT OTHER?

“The brat,” Friedrich said. Chev absolutely did not let out a few hysterical giggles. 

The three of them tried various things related to Chev, as his primary partner. COLLEGE. DESK (since Pierre had been crouched in Reinette’s desk well, ready to serve, at the time). They even got metaphorical and went for BATHROOM, in case Pierre had gone with “meeting” the “true” Chev after their trial by fire. 

Maybe Pierre had ‘lied’. So they tried with his other significant others. FETLIFE. CHARLOTTESVILLE. VERNON. PSYCH WARD. FRENCH CLUB.

If they’d tried Reinette, why not other past lovers? Friedrich recalled hearing about two of Pierre’s exes, one from high school and one from a brief fling that he kept secret from his family during a long visit. SAN FRANCISCO. SAIGON. 

Then Friedrich said, “Wait. Pierre doesn’t like to think of any of us as insignificant. What’s true for all of us?”

Chev, after some thought, put in MIND. Meeting of the minds.

It worked.

The cheers turned into the disappointed realization that all they’d accomplished was getting a password change link sent to Pierre’s email. Then Ada, who’d been half-paying attention, asked, “When you let Charles and me have your laptop for a week to make it more spy-ish, didn’t Pierre let you use his, including telling you its password?”

“Yes.”

“Is it home with you right now?”

“Yes…”

“Go see if he left his email logged in.” When it turned out he had, she said dryly, “Well, at least I’ve slightly redeemed myself.”

So it was that the group finally managed to see who had supposedly picked Pierre up a few hours ago and claimed to have delivered him safely to his destination. 

Ada said, “Now I can skip ahead to finding out who this Chaz Dodgson is, where he lives, any data that can be used against him, if he’s secretly from a rival agency in disguise...all that good stuff. By which I mean terrible stuff. Useful terrible stuff.”

***

Another waiting game, but this time there was more of a sense of purpose. The denial, anger, and fear had passed through them, and now came the digging. 

It occurred to Friedrich that it might be worthwhile to investigate the neurologists Pierre had been acting as eager guinea pig for. He was the one who took Pierre to his first Neuralizine injection and went into the offices and chatted with Dr. Chovet and team, so it was logical for him to handle that. Besides, he was getting stir-crazy. He made some calls and took his leave.

Reinette fetched her laptop from her bag and used its custom features to go into the Deep Web where the Agency did its business, and to look at similar types of contractors on a similar level. She wasn’t a hacker, but she knew people. Maybe someone knew someone knew someone who’d been offered a certain kidnapping gig, whether or not they accepted.

Chev went to the bedroom and lay quietly for half an hour, like Dr. Suriyaren advised was better than nothing when they needed sleep but couldn’t get any. Afterwards they called Fritz using a secure link Ada quickly set up for them on request and asked for advice. Most of it was abstract strategy, but worthwhile nonetheless. One of the concrete things:

“Has Friedrich stopped ticcing?”

“Yes.”

“He’s in flow. So focused that his little misfires can’t touch him. That’s great, for the most part. Watch out, though, for him tipping past that calm and into rage. If Pierre’s been abducted and has been harmed, I myself won’t shed tears over anything that happens to the perpetrator, but it won’t be good for Friedrich’s retirement record and it will likely damage his relationship with Pierre beyond mending. Understand?”

“Yes, Fritz, thank you.”

“I hope you can forgive me for not wishing to get involved myself.”

“Of course.” The man had literally faked his death to get away from this world. Chev wouldn’t expect him to wade back in.

Then they thawed a block of Improvisational Soup they and Pierre had made together, dished up a bowl for Reinette, and choked some down. They were no good to Pierre at anything other than their best. 

***

Chev and Reinette were still picking at lunch when Ada got their attention again. “Charles ‘Chaz’ Lutwidge Dodgson is working on his Ph.D in non-Euclidean geometry, presumably Uber-ing to get by in the meantime. He writes and illustrates a whimsical, nerdy webcomic under the name Lewis Carroll. Alice’s Outlandish Adventures. I’m looking at it now and I gotta say, despite the circumstances I might have to binge read the archives. Does that make me bad?”

“I don’t think so,” Reinette said. “You can like something someone made without liking everything about them.”

“Thanks. He spent a stint as TA, and Rate My Professor has many students saying he was nice and very competent, though with a bad stutter. I had to unearth a bunch of inter-office memos and minutes from meetings to find out what happened next. Why he resigned.”

In other words, the strings which Pierre’s abductors had most likely pulled. Chev got to their feet and started clearing away the dishes. “I want to hear it, and if possible have it forwarded for reference, but first thing’s first. Where does he live?” 

“Don’t go straight for the thumbscrews, please. Dodgson might be a victim. I can’t tell from the data I have.”

Reinette reassured her, “Chev always fights the same way: light touch, no brutality, mask firmly on, and to win.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thumbs-up to those who correctly identified Lewis Carroll last chapter.


	34. on broken glass for you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much setup for this one, gentle readers.

Pierre had only a few ways to guess the passage of time, and he had no reason to believe these things were at regular intervals. His captors shifted from use of a laptop - one shared between the two of them, with an ethernet cable instead of wifi - to reading, to writing, to taking a turn resting in the tent, to having tea and sandwiches. All the while talking in the language Pierre still didn’t recognize, though he soaked it up as best he could. It was a distraction from the exhaustion and muscle spasms and thirst/hunger. All his efforts to think about how he’d improve the Hogwarts curriculum or what tattoos he thought would best suit various superheroes kept fading away under the harsh lights.

He’d been allowed two breaks so far. Touchy untied him and helped him off the stepstool, then helped him to the port-a-john to relieve himself. The help was necessary because Pierre was weak and shaky from hours in a stress position. He wouldn’t have escaped Azor licking his shin, much less a pair of armed men. Then what felt like a thimbleful of water to drink, and being pressed against a wall while his arms were twisted back and up again.

The second time this happened, Pierre lost his self-control and whimpered, “Don’t push my elbows that close together, please, please don’t…”

“That’s not the one thing you’re allowed to say,” Moleface reminded him from across the room.

Pierre didn’t fail to notice, however, that Touchy subtly made the bondage a few centimeters less strict. He tried to think analytically about it once he’d been left to his unhappy devices, but something new caught his eye.

Centipedes. There were centipedes crawling from that tent. Gigantic centipedes. Much bigger than Azor, even discounting length. Pierre liked measuring things in Azors when there was nothing else enjoyable about the situation. Instead of cutely rippling like peaceful millipedes, their feet skittered across the concrete floor. He was weighing the pros and cons of calling out a warning (in Pierre's current brain it’d be satisfying and funny for his captors to die by centipede, but on the other hand nobody would be around to give him breaks), when he heard a voice in his ear.

“Young man, I hope you realize you’re hallucinating.” It was, of course, Benjamin Franklin.

_I do now._

“Good! Realization is an important step. Dr. Chovet told you that you likely have a much-lower threshold for sleep-deprivation-induced hallucinations than most people, thanks to the Neuralizine, and when you get out of this, you can confirm it for him. Let’s do something about the centipedes. You’re not schizophrenic. It doesn’t have to work like it does for me, or say, George King. Remember what I said to you?”

_”The key is to remember that these voices are a part of my mind that for some reason manifest as what I perceive as sounds, not thoughts, and as if they aren’t my thoughts. So I try to turn it to my advantage as a way to organize my thinking. Make it a constructive dialogue, without my needing to contribute aloud.” Wow, I didn’t expect to recall that word-for-word._

“You’re a gifted, neurodivergent torture victim who happens to be on unprecedented brain drugs. Who knows what you’ll do?”

_You’re very smart._

“No, you are. I’m your thoughts that you’ve made Franklin-shaped because on some level, that’s what you need. Do it on purpose. Make the centipedes into something you need.”

Considerably earlier, Pierre realized that Fritz had enciphered his letter to Friedrich with the same cipher Chev had been practicing on the flight to France. Which had all sorts of implications. The one that wasn’t as scary to think about right now, though, was the innocent passage Pierre read before Chev snatched it back.

The concept of the triple goddess. Maiden. Mother. Crone.

He closed his eyes for the length two blinks, not wanting to risk more. He didn’t want a handful of ice cubes dumped down the back of his shirt again. Touchy hadn’t given him time to dry off during his break. 

When he opened them, the centipedes were gone. In their place were Ada, Adrienne, and Reinette. He must have lacked the energy to imagine outfits for them. They were all in black long-sleeved shirts and pants, like stagehands you were supposed to ignore when they moved furniture around between scenes.

“Why is Reinette the Crone?” Fake!Ada asked, because that would be the first thing to come out of her mouth.

“Because I’m not necessarily good or nice, and he knows that more than ever, but he also knows I’m right,” Fake!Reinette said.

Fake!Adrienne came as close as she could without actually touching him. She said, in French, “I’d take you in my arms if I could, poor sweet thing.”

_I know. Thank you anyway._

Ada cracked her knuckles. “Right, then, if a version of me is here, we might as well get work done. Have you been paying attention to those dudes? What they’re saying? Their language?”

_It doesn’t belong to a language family with a language I already speak. You know I can’t do that._

Reinette clicked her tongue. “No, you can’t do that effortlessly. You’ve never actually tried to do it on purpose.”

“Which is understandable,” Adrienne hastened to add. She continued to speak in French throughout, but logically enough this posed no problem for his other hallucinations.

“How about we analyze their English to try to pin down where they’re from?” Ada suggested. She turned to peer at them. They were quietly playing cards now, but still talking. “They don’t sound American. They sound vaguely British, but with a slightly different flavor. So let’s think about people who would naturally speak something along the lines of U.K. English, but also be native speakers of something else.”

_I know I’ve heard that accent before. And maybe not this language, but something similar. I associate it with you, Ada. I don’t know why._

“Are you still romantically interested in me?”

_That was a non sequitur, Countess._

“Think about what else you were doing when you told her,” Adrienne said. “Take the emotional memory. Expand it. What were you doing.”

_We were watching...oh my god, we were watching Torchwood. The language sounds kind of like Elvish. I’ve been kidnapped by Welsh people. That is ridiculous._

“What are you giggling about?” Moleface sounded annoyed but also mildly worried.

“It’s hysteria, sir,” Pierre croaked. His mouth was very dry.

Touchy said something in what Pierre supposed was Welsh, and the card game resumed.

Ada pointed at Pierre. “You’re like Tolkien in a World War One trench. Wet and cold and scared. Analyze Welsh grammar to stay sane. What words do they say the most frequently? Those have got to be either articles or nouns, right?”

_I can’t believe I’m doing this._

“Don’t expect anything sensible of this situation,” Adrienne advised.

***

Pierre and Fake!Ada went through a morphological and syntactical analysis of everything he was hearing, because why the hell not. Even if it never worked, it might help him hang on until Chev and Friedrich found him. Adrienne reassured him that they would. Reinette apologized for her real counterpart being a part of this somehow, but pointed out this likely meant she was helping with the rescue effort.

Eventually, Ada said, “You’ve always put the pieces together in your sleep, right? That’s when you’ve synthesized all the data. And sleep is literally what you’re being kept from right now.” 

“Trade something for it, our rainbow macaron,” Reinette said, decisively. “Give them just enough information to get them to let you have a few hours of sleep.”

_I’ve only got one real thing to give._

“Give them the real thing, lightly embroidered, and when you figure out what they’ve been saying, you can come up with some lies they’ll believe,” Ada said.

Adrienne reached for him, and was almost, almost able to touch his face, almost able to cup it with her fingers and trace her thumb across the cheekbone. Her hand hovered, unable to cross that last gnat’s eyelash of space. “Friedrich can take care of himself. He’d want you to do what it takes to survive.”

“Besides, he deserves a bit of inconvenience,” Reinette muttered.

So Pierre said loudly, “I’m ready to be helpful!”

***

Pierre managed to haggle a full bottle of water, a little food, and two hours of sleep in exchange for “a start”. He only slightly played up the evidence of how he was now tired to the point of incoherency and wouldn’t be genuinely helpful until he’d had those concessions. 

His arms straight, in relative darkness, and sitting in a chair was absolute heaven. He was given the water right away as an advance payment and so it wasn’t too hard to understand his words. 

A long, wonderful drink later, Pierre placed his cuffed hands on the table said, “Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben is the former second-in-command of a German crime boss that I don’t know much about, but you’re not asking me about that aspect. He’s been living quietly in the U.S. for several years now, writing history books and staying under the radar. Maybe some consulting, here and there? Not much more than that. His career fell apart because of his Tourette’s syndrome and his temper. He beat a man to death. That was the last straw. I don’t think it was thought of as unethical per se, but sloppy. He’s got a thing for significantly younger men. He’s got a background in tying up people and hurting them, much like you guys, I suppose.”

“Is he fucking you?” Moleface asked bluntly. Pierre didn’t know where Touchy had gone off to, once he’d been put in the chair.

“Not right this second. I’d have thought you’d notice.”

Off to the side, Fake!Reinette facepalmed. Someone took a fistful of Pierre’s hair and tugged it, hard. Ah, that’s where Touchy was. 

“Fine, sorry, no jokes. On and off. We met because I have mild Tourette’s, but mine is much better treated. Bimonthly injections, not pills, that’s why I’m only slightly twitchy.”

“We’d been wondering about you clapping earlier,” Touchy said. Moleface frowned at him, presumably for saying something so lighthearted.

“It was group therapy, to help handle the symptoms. I didn’t know at the time. About him, I mean. He was so...all-encompassing, you know, like I was precious and he was going to take care of me…”

Moleface cleared his throat. “The idea is rather that you’d tell us relevant things.”

Pierre made Bambi eyes. “You asked me what I know. What do you consider relevant?”

“His work.”

“Are you in the habit of telling your sexual partners all that much about what you do for a living? Oh, sorry, I shouldn’t assume you date outside your profession. Or that you date. Or have sex. I have an asexual friend, he’s very tired of those assumptions…”

An exchange followed in which Moleface sounded angry and Touchy sounded like he was placating him. Finally, Touchy brought Pierre a single slice of cold, day-old pizza, and Pierre wolfed it down and immediately got a stomachache.

There were two sleeping bags in the tent. Touchy removed Pierre’s cuffs to take off his shirt, to dry it, put them back on but fairly loosely, and essentially tucked him in. The incongruity set Pierre into a breathless fit of giggles. 

“I can’t cuddle you, but I’ll lie next to you,” Adrienne said. Dressed in one of her silky negligees, lying atop the empty sleeping bag. Though maybe floating an inch above it. 

_Can you sing me to sleep, Marquise?_

“Of course, sweet toy.”

***

It’s not like the German, where he flashed back to the conversation and had it all, word for word. Different circumstances. Different pressures. Instead, Ada’s there, and they’re back in his old studio apartment and dressed exactly like during their Torchwood marathon months ago. Her laptop isn’t showing Torchwood, though, it’s showing a frenetic, non-linear first-person time lapse of every moment where he heard those two speaking Welsh.

She hands him a big bag of Wasabi peas. He likes to eat those while pondering difficult matters. “You’re brain’s not fully sorted who said what and when, but I’ve been watching these for you here in your timeless subconscious, and I’ll give you a digest.”

“Thanks,” he says, putting a handful of the peas in his mouth. They taste like Oreos and squeak when he chews. Some wires have clearly been crossed. 

“Moleface calls Touchy ‘Da’ir’, and Touchy calls Moleface ‘Shoni’. They’re names, not Welsh nouns. You might recall that fluency in Welsh is not universal among Welsh people, thanks to cultural imperialism. There were some clues that they're Welsh separatists - I know, you always assume Northern Irish or maybe Scottish if you're thinking Celtic separatists - who got way too hardline about it to safely stay in the U.K. any longer. They’re working for some French man. A politician, who wants to take down some major French gang, and apparently all these people you love in those photos are affiliated with an estranged leader of the gang. Mr. 15. Though with Lafayette it’s unwilling. He’s being blackmailed, not just by them. By at least three people.”

“No wonder he was so stressed,” Pierre says. He dismisses the defective snack into the ether.

Ada takes his hand. “This Mr. 15 set up a spy agency, and that’s what you’re supposed to know about. When they’ve gotten as much useful information out of you as they believe you’re capable of giving -”

“Information for that French politician to use to take down Mr. 15, and possibly screw Lafayette over.” Lafayette is the least guilty, but the most high-profile and wealthy of everyone involved.

“Make that definitely. Just like you’ve been seen with Lafayette, you’ve been seen with each other the others except for the man Reinette is with. Probably Mr. 15 himself. They think Chev is a man, by the way. Maybe they present as male while doing spy stuff.”

“I hope not. They'd find that very wearying eventually." Pierre wondered at his own priorities. Whatever. He shouldn't expect anything sensible.

“Once they believe you’ve given it your all, Shoni and Da’ir going to ransom you to Lafayette. In exchange for both money and a written confession. They’re not going to tell you that until they’ve wrung you dry, though, because they don’t want you to have hope.” Ada abruptly kisses Pierre on the lips, but it’s a dream, so it’s not that weird. Pierre takes it for what it’s worth.

They do need to finish the discussion, though, so Pierre tears himself away after a few seconds. “Go on.”

“You may have noticed that Touchy, aka Da’ir, has been the Louie to Shoni’s Claude, so to speak. He’s a sensitive guy. Writes poetry. Has a religious streak he’s never completely shaken. Shoni keeps reminding Da’ir that you’re not a ‘civilian’. While I doubt there’s a way to convince Da’ir that you’re not a criminal, maybe you could convince him that you’re a sympathetic, nonviolent kind that fell in with the wrong crowd and should be pitied. Every little bit -”

Then Pierre is shaken awake.

***

“A lie they’ll believe,” Reinette said. Pierre was pleased to see that his Triple Goddess was still with him, two hours of sleep having been insufficient to restore his normal mind. He’d currently rather be crazy than alone. “They won’t believe you know nothing, but you can convince them you don’t know much.”

“You can’t let them think you’re holding things back because of love,” Adrienne warned.

“Well?” Shoni-of-the-Mole-Upon-Face asked.

Pierre stared down at the table. “Mr. 15 will kill me if he finds out I told you.”

“He’s not here. We are. Prioritize.”

Da’ir took a seat next to Shoni, across from Pierre. “Do you need more water?”

“Get on with it,” Shoni said.

“I’m a college student. Was broke. Really broke. Before Lafayette and his wife returned to France, they were living not that far from where my school is, right? I got into a sugar parents sort of thing with them. They’re very fond of me, and I needed new clothes and textbooks and...anyway, Lafayette recommended the therapy group to me, where I met Friedrich, and Friedrich…” Even though Pierre was making this up, thinking about Friedrich was making him tearful. No acting required. “As you made clear you expect, people let stuff slip to their sexual partners sometimes. To get around this, Mr. 15’s group has a few regular…”

“Whores.”

“This sounds very fanfiction,” Ada commented, just out of Pierre’s vision.

Pierre mentally flipped her off. In a friendly way. “I got in so deep, and Friedrich got me into compromising situations, and now...they have girls, too, but some of the members like boys, so there’s that option to cater to. I’m trapped. I know almost nothing. But they snap their fingers and I have to do what they say.”

“Interesting. Why did you accompany Charles d’Eon to France?”

“Um.” He hadn’t expected to be asked that, plus the misgendering that he would be best off not correcting, the misgendering that paradoxically might help keep Chev safer, was making him itch.

His Triple Goddess started yelling suggestions all at once. Pierre couldn’t pick one out of the din.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make this subplot work, I dug up a pair of obscure 19th-century Welsh criminals who were transported to Australia. Shoni Sguborfawr (aka Johnny Big Barn) and Da'ir Cantwr (aka David Davies). They weren't actually this awful. Together they were involved in anti-English protests called "The Rebecca Riots". While the worst that happened from that was property damage and a bit of brawling, both blackmailed fellow participants for their participation. Both also had a string of petty thefts, assaults, etc. Shoni did kill a man, though, which is probably why he never got pardoned, while Da'or eventually did. Da'ir was an amateur poet and singer; "Cantwr" means "The Singer". He returned to Wales after serving out his time in Australia. 
> 
> If anyone knows how to say these dudes' Welsh names, please help.


	35. stick it where you got him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a picture of a young dwarf hotot rabbit. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> You're welcome.

Girt with a boyish garb for boyish task  
Eager she wields her spade: yet loves as well  
Rest on a friendly knee, intent to ask  
The tale he loves to tell.

Rude spirits of the seething outer strife,  
Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright,  
Deem, if you list, such hours a waste of life  
Empty of all delight!

 

Chat on, sweet Maid, and rescue from annoy  
Hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguiled.  
Ah, happy he who owns that tenderest joy,  
The heart-love of a child!

Away fond thoughts, and vex my soul no more!  
Work claims my wakeful nights, my busy days—  
Albeit bright memories of that sunlit short  
Yet haunt my dreaming gaze!

***

“It’s written for that freshman he got in trouble for dating,” Reinette whispered. She and Chev had come up with a plan before finding and breaking into these three tiny rooms being illegally sublet above a struggling independent bookstore. Now they were waiting in Dodgson’s not-bedroom not-bathroom, to ambush him. Reinette had arranged herself in a very supervillainess pose. “It’s an acrostic. Spells out her name. Twice, if you look carefully.”

They’d learned from Ada’s intel that Dodgson’s ex-girlfriend was a survivor of childhood cancer, which had interrupted her growth and left her looking permanently prepubescent. Ada had said, “It’s not her fault, or anyone she dates’ fault, that she looked about twelve at age nineteen, but it made her twenty-eight year-old TA seem extra...ooky.” So Chev had changed into a pretty A-shape dress, light lip gloss, floral-pattern cardigan, white tights, and Mary Jane-esque black flats. The latter also emphasized how short they naturally were. They wore the least-supportive bra they had, to make it obvious that they were an A-cup, rather than the push-up bra they often pressed into service when going femme. 

They’d promised not to go for thumbscrews. Instead, Reinette was helping them set up a Mind Screw.

It took at least a minute for the rumpled mathematician to even notice they were there. His glasses were dangling from the collar of his bathrobe. He made it several steps to the large plastic tub full of instant coffee, balanced on the mini fridge next to the microwave that seemed to be the closest thing he had to a kitchen, then he shrieked.

“The sign says the store’s closed Sunday and Monday,” Reinette reminded him. “Just us three in the building. Plus your adorable little white rabbit here. If I didn’t know those markings are characteristics of the Dwarf Hotot breed, I would have thought you’d been putting eyeliner on it. Emo bunny.”

Dodgson put his glasses on with shaky hands. “P-please don’t hurt Snark. H-he’s five months old w-with a deformed, a deformed foot. B-breeder didn’t want him.”

“I’m just petting him. Sit down.”

He looked at Chev and Reinette, then back again, to be sure they were real, maybe. “I’ll c-call, I’ll call, I’ll. The cops.”

“We know your phone is charging at that outlet over there in the corner.” Reinette said, letting Snark down on the floor when he started squirming.

“You tell them you’ve got intruders, we’ll tell them you kidnapped my boyfriend,” Chev said, making deliberately uncomfortable eye contact.

Dodgson wilted onto a repurposed plastic lawn chair that faced the faded couch the other two were occupying. The other chair was at the table that was mostly work desk but was probably used for eating as well. “D-dunno what you’re t-”

“Don’t waste our time, please,” Chev said quietly. “Pierre and I share an Uber account. You picked him up around five-thirty this morning, after we had an argument and he freaked out, thought this meant the relationship was over. Then I managed to text him calmer. He was still upset but said he’d come over and sort it out. Then, at some point during the trip, he vanished. Do you have any idea how I feel about that?”

“T-They said, they said they were hired t-to find someone’d been frightening a client, that Pierre knew things…” Dodgson wrung his hands.

“It was convenient to your conscience to pretend you believed them,” Reinette said. She got up and went to examine the items on the table. This was all for show. She’d done it already. “You either got this laptop as a gift or during happier times, didn’t you? And if Snark is only five months, and since you probably adopted him when you were living somewhere bigger, your circumstances are recent.”

Chev made the kind of sniffle that someone trying not to sniffle makes. Thank you, Josefa, for the acting lessons. “It’s true that Pierre has an ex that got up to shady business, but Pierre broke up with him the moment he found out. He doesn’t know any details. Right now, whoever you sold him out to is probably hurting him to learn information he doesn’t _have_.”

“Pierre’s bisexual?” Dodgson asked, voice gone soft.

“Pansexual,” Chev said. “Not that it should matter.”

“N-no, it’s. Um. I just hope that they…that they’re not...that it isn’t making this worse...” Snark had hopped near him, and he leaned down to stroke his back. “I g-g-got up to feed Snark and then go back to bed, can I please feed him at least?”

“Sure. Pierre wouldn’t want a rabbit starving over him.” Chev didn’t have to lie about that.

Reinette held up a plastic folder. “Any reckless moves and I’ll burn this file labeled THESIS PROOFS NOT YET DIGITIZED. There seem to be a lot of handwritten equations. Complicated ones. That it’d be a pain to do all over again. My goodness, you should digitize your work more often, this is practically half a textbook.”

Dodgson gulped and put Snark back in the hutch with some food and fresh water very efficiently. Reinette, folder tucked under her arm, made tea for herself and Chev without getting permission. As a display of dominance. Also, he had some rather high-quality English breakfast tea. Maybe that was a relic as well. 

Chev took a small bottle out of their purse and stared at it with exaggerated sorrow. “How much did they pay you?”

Hands fumbling with the latch of the hutch door, Dodgson said, through gritted teeth and the clearest diction they’d heard from him so far, “ _I would never have done something like that for money._ ”

Reinette emptied one packet of sugar into Chev’s tea and handed it to them. The meager collection of dishes and utensils were all in a crate, though neatly organized. Chev stirred it. “What’d you do it for?”

Dodgson went back the chair, but he seemed on the fence whether to say anything or not. Reinette returned to the couch with her tea, and still with the folder. She didn’t offer to make any for their unwilling host.

Chev tossed the bottle at Dodgson. He was too startled and insufficiently naturally coordinated to catch it, but he picked it up after it bounced off his chest. Chev said, “That’s Pierre’s anxiety medication. Note that it tells him to take it twice a day. He’ll have missed one dose by now. I’m hoping to get this resolved without having to bring his family into this; he begged me to not tell them about his ex, knowing they won’t approve. But it’s very possible that I will get very desperate. Very soon.”

Dodgson examined the bottle. It was real, and still had a few pills in it. Pierre had held onto it despite no longer taking that medication, just in case it was relevant to show to a future doctor. The expiration date was far enough in the future that Dodgson wouldn’t notice anything odd unless he had an intimate knowledge of medication expiration dates, and was also in the state of mind to put it into practice. He bit his lip. He started talking. 

He told them that while he was working as a TA, he’d also regularly babysat the daughter of one of the faculty members. He lived near the Liddell family home, and Alice was very fond of “Uncle Dodo”. Yes, this was the Alice who inspired his webcomic. The comic itself had arisen out of trying to entertain her on a rainy day with stories and drawings, as the family strictly controlled her TV and Internet consumption. Besides, he loved doing things with her. He loved her.

Then there was that kerfuffle about him dating Gertrude, whom he taught, and who looked very young for her age. (Reinette cut in to say that he didn’t have to explain this part, because they’d done their homework.) Suddenly, his relationship with Alice was being seen in a new light. A less innocent light, when everyone had been fine with it at first. Every game, every story, every drawing, every gift of cake or a single red rose on Valentine’s day, every “glamor shoot” of her in different costumes - some of which he probably was foolish to take pictures of, like the improvised mermaid one, or the Poor Little Match Girl all in skimpy rags - all of it was gone through with a fine-toothed comb. The context, in their minds, had changed, and so followed a change in conclusions. 

The university had encouraged him to resign without a fuss, in exchange for his Ph.D’s future and not having his academic career completely ruined when it had hardly begun. Similarly, the Liddell parents told him they wouldn’t “pursue the matter” if he moved away. Immediately.

This place was all he could find and afford on short notice. He’d applied for other work, but without success except for Uber. That was a weak compromise. He couldn’t drive full time and also work on his thesis. His two small joys in life now were his pet rabbit and continuing with the comic. Getting admiration and praise for “Lewis Carroll”, while Chaz Dodgson was going through the worse time of his life.

But just before he moved, he’d received a letter in the mail. The letter was from Alice. It asked him why he was leaving and why her parents didn’t want her to see him anymore. It was full of affection and genuine confusion. It was not the sort of letter a little girl writes someone she’s afraid of. Unlike things she said in person to him, his presence hadn’t influenced it. 

He was biding his time until the Liddell family calmed down a bit, and he wanted to use that letter, which Alice had written freely and without the knowledge of any adult, as evidence that he was not a predator. He realized things might never go back to the way they had been, but he would settle for his old home back, and to not be constantly looking over his shoulder for cops or court summons. 

Then a pair of men got into his car, and claimed to be private eyes on behalf of the Liddell family. They had badges. Said they were considering pressing charges after all. He’d offered to meet with them later. He showed them the letter. 

They took the letter, and revealed that they weren’t working for the Liddells at all. Then they told him instructions for what to do if he wanted it back. They would take care of him getting Pierre's next ride, rather than another driver.

“I r-really should digitize things m-m-more,” Dodgson concluded, his voice full of grief and self-loathing.

Chev wasn’t sure whether they were more inclined to believe Dodgson’s version of events, or Alice’s parents’ conclusions, but that was not important right now. “Show us where you took him. Let’s start with that.”

“You’re not driving, though,” Reinette said. “You’re coming with us.”

Dodgson nodded, resigned. “C-Can I put in my contact lenses?”

***

On the way, Dodgson told them that the men’s fake badges had listed their names as John Barnes and David Davies. He gave a rough description of them, and said they sounded British, but regionally British, a region he wasn’t able to pinpoint. He said he’d never seen their car. It had been hidden in a patch of woods when he’d gotten to the drop-off point, and he was ordered to leave shortly after turning Pierre over.

He told Reinette when to park. The three of them got out, and Dodgson pointed. “I p-parked over there. T-They were rough w-with him, m-made him lie on the ground face down. I p-protested, b-but I was, I was scared. I am sc-scared. All the time, now.”

“Right now, he’s considerably more scared than you are,” Reinette said.

Chev abandoned all dignity and crawled up and down the grass on by side of the road that Dodgson had indicated. That was how they found the necklace. 

It was partly that Chev had been projecting vulnerability on purpose while questioning this guy, and partly the knowledge that what most likely happened was Pierre secretly removing the necklace himself in the hope of it being found. The necklace he otherwise only removed for swimming, showering, and sex with other people. These two things together were what made Chev cry. They’d never cried when they themselves had been kidnapped, even when Louie’s intervention had been the only thing protecting them from Claude beating and raping them. They’d been hysterical and tearful when first rescued, sure, but it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t sobbing, huddled on the ground.

They realized Reinette and Dodgson were standing over them. Chev handed the necklace to Reinette in lieu of verbal explanation. She sat down next to them and put an arm around their shoulders. “Chaz, sit on the other side of Jenny here. I want to show you something.” “Jenny” was Chev’s “helpless female ingenue” persona.

Dodgson did. Reinette gently took Chev’s right hand, and held the pad of their thumb facing up, and juxtaposed it with the pendant where Dodgson could easily see. “Now we know for sure that you’re telling the truth. This was her present to Pierre’s on his birthday. The pendant’s her thumbprint.”

After a long silence, Dodgson said. “N-not the best artist, b-but I’ll, I’ll draw those men. Draw them for you.”

***

Ada said she could work with Chev’s photo of the resulting sketch, feed it into a facial recognition program. Dodgson provided a few other details as he remembered them, and she added that into her various algorithms too. 

Chev and Reinette sent Dodgson home. His remorse and the prospect of mutually assured destruction were enough for both to be willing to let him go free otherwise. They didn’t plan on telling him that they were hoping not to get the police involved in any way that might reveal exactly why someone would consider Pierre worth kidnapping. Unless, by some convenient miracle, the only motivation turned out to have been the amount of money Lafayette would fork over for his safety. Chev doubted it was that simple, though, especially given the cover story Dodgson had tricked himself into half-heartedly believing.

“I’m glad you didn’t threaten to destroy Alice’s letter,” Chev said. The two of them were going back to Chev’s apartment to rest and regroup, and wait for Friedrich to rejoin them unless he called and said otherwise.

“Members of the Agency have signed a contract saying we understand we might be framed for a crime if we try to betray it. He hasn’t signed a contract like that. Whether he’s psychologically a pedophile or not, or an active predator or not, he deserves a fair trial and all the evidence relevant to one. It’d be worse than killing that bunny.” Reinette sighed.

“Marie won’t let you have pets, I’m guessing.”

“Too disorderly. It’s okay. I have you.” She patted their leg. They managed to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I quoted the first four verses of Lewis Carroll's long story-poem, "The Hunting of the Snark". Alice Liddell's name similarly appears in an acrostic in one of the chapters of "Alice Through the Looking-Glass". She and Gertrude Chataway were not the only two little girls Dodgson had a close bond with when he was an adult, but they were the most significant.
> 
> The debate rages back and forth about Dodgson's sexuality. The photo reference is based on his actual hobby of taking photos of the girls, some of which were nude, though with their parents' permission - naked pictures of kids (doing nonsexual things) weren't that weird in Victorian England. The letter thing is based on the fact that many pages of Dodgson's extensive diaries were removed by someone else, and one of the missing entries would explain why Dodgson suddenly became estranged from the Liddell family in June 1863. A note in someone else's handwriting claims that it was because of an awkward romantic entanglement with the nanny, implying that the pages were removed to protect her from embarrassment. There is also the possibility that one of Alice's older sisters had a crush on him, which would be another kind of awkward. Some biographers think that actually, he asked for 11-year-old Alice's hand in marriage, alarming her parents. The primary source on his side of the story is lost, and the family is not on record as ever having discussed it with others. I'm not an expert on all this. I'm just taking inspiration for a seamy thriller RPF fanfiction. 
> 
> I have not seen any arguments claiming he was actively harmful. The question is whether or not, essentially, he was suppressing an inherent predisposition (he was often depressed and berated himself for being a sinner without explaining what sins), or if he was just a stuttery, smart, shy guy who simply never married and related well to young girls. Fortunately, I firmly believe we can enjoy someone's work no matter how we feel about the person, so I hope I haven't ruined your childhood.


	36. scandalous mess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the April round of Fight Back Fic, you can commission a fic from a member of The Hist'ryverse Collective (Atheilen/Herowndeliverance, hollimichele, Gement, Regina_Cordium, and raven_aorla) involving our super cool ongoing Hamilton/Sleepy Hollow crossover series. 
> 
> Go to https://fightbackfic.tumblr.com/author%20list for details.
> 
> ***
> 
> I love all your comments! I want to go back and respond; right now when I have limited time and the choice is continuing the story or replying to comments, the story wins out. I don't want you to doubt my appreciation, though. I eagerly check my email with a perhaps unhealthy frequency.
> 
> ***
> 
> Warning for non-graphic rape threat of unsure sincerity. There's some dark humor about it as a coping mechanism, not as a form of trivialization.

Friedrich returned to Chev and Pierre’s place. “The researchers are honest, conscientious, and lovely people. God-fucking dammit.”

“You might feel better after I tell you what we learned,” Reinette said. “Do you want a grilled cheese sandwich with unusually fancy cheese? It’s Chev’s easiest comfort food.”

“I probably should. Where are they?”

“Lying in bed with the blankets over their head, clutching the parrotfish plushie Pierre bought for them from the Baltimore Aquarium when John Laurens invited him to come see an exhibit he helped with.”

It was a wonderful, albeit overpriced parrotfish that Chev had named Tipton, after trans jazz musician Billy Tipton. It was very soft. They also had the necklace scrunched in their fist. Ada said there was no shame in having a Blue Screen of Death moment and to need a temporary shut down. 

“I’m hoping to coax them out with gooey Gruyere,” Reinette continued. “Want a bottle of Belgian-style craft beer? I bet Chev spends more on being a well-dressed foodie than on rent and gas combined.”

“TRADER JOE’S, THRIFT SHOPS, BARGAINS, AND BEING MANIPULATIVE, BITCHES.”

“It’s good to hear signs of life,” Friedrich said. “Let’s not have beer. If there's a breakthrough, we should all be sober for it. Fritz had me flog a few men who got caught drinking alcohol on stakeout. Nobody made fun of me when I took up knitting for times like these.”

“You could do some knitting now,” Reinette suggested. Chev heard sizzling and smelled butter.

“If I relax too much my tics will start up again, which I don’t need during a time of crisis. It was very irritating when rescuing Chev. I mean, the tics were. Glad to rescue Chev. The tics only go away when I’m being my soldier self. If that makes sense.”

“It does.”

“Besides, my current project is a gift for Pierre, and I will not be okay with touching it.”

Chev called out, “I’LL EMERGE IF YOU PUT SLICED HAM IN MINE.”

“Such an action hero!” Reinette yelled back. Then, more quietly: “Would you like to hear about our fact-finding mission, Friedrich?”

“Yes.”

“Please don’t do anything to Mr. Dodgson. If nothing else, Ada wants to know whether the Jabberwock’s burbling has any significance to the plot…”

***

Ada gave regular status updates. Most of them boiled down to “nothing useful yet, sorry” and “my anxious tears do not speed up this process, you’d think it would”. Charles sent some specs about what it would have taken to destroy the keychain tracker. This wasn’t particularly helpful, but Reinette thanked him, and listened to his overly detailed descriptions of the booby traps he’d created to protect him and Ada. 

She also exchanged a pair of texts with Marie: “OK?” “Nope.” This means she was okay. The idea was that if someone were forcing her to say she was okay, they wouldn’t expect her to type that. If she really wasn’t okay, she would have said “No.”

Chev was glad to hear it. They had decided to pass the time by trying to find various potential disguise components hidden at the back of their closet. The apartment had three closets. This one, by mutual agreement, was just for Chev’s things. Thus far they’d found two wigs, a Halloween kit of face paint and “blood” packets, a medical eyepatch (that people would try to politely look away from), and nurse-style scrubs. They organized the closet as they went. It was something other than Blue Screen of Death. The pendant was around their neck now, for safekeeping.

Friedrich got out his laptop and did research he did not elaborate upon. Nobody asked him to, unless he found something.

Ada got in touch again long after Reinette and Chev had decided to platonically share the main bed and let Friedrich have the futon in the guest room/Pierre’s study room and library. Chev hadn’t expected to get any sleep, but they awoke with a start when their phone rang. 

“Chev, after running all the data and checking speed cameras and reported car thefts and these two even shared a motel room two weeks ago under the names Chaz gave you - anyway, I’ve got a license plate, but if they’ve parked somewhere out in the countryside, like maybe a foreclosed home, which would be the smart thing to do, the Internet is not going to get us there. Like, you’d need people who were familiar with the sorts of places that make good clandestine meeting points and secret lairs, like, a whole lot of people, to fan out from the point where we last know Pierre was. I don’t think the Agency has dozens of people to help us out all at once like that.”

Chev wished they were smoking a fake cigarette just so they could drop it to the floor and stamp it out. “No. But I know who does.”

***  
_“Wei?”_

They swallowed the lump in their throat. Clearly, as if pronouncing an incantation, Chev said, “The Widow of Ching is a person, and she is human, and the Cavalier is in need.”

“Wait, please.”

Chev did. Until a new voice answered.

“It is your luck that I have not yet left for the sea,” Ching Shih said, no trace of drowsiness in her voice. “What is it you need?”

***

“You mean you had Ching Shih in your debt this entire time and didn’t think to tell us?” Reinette asked. She was putting condensed milk in her coffee, which Chev guessed she’d picked up from Pierre. Pierre claimed it wasn’t weird in Southeast Asia. 

Friedrich said, “That was wise, actually. Asking her something so broad as ‘find my boyfriend for me’ would require sharing a lot of confidential information, handing over a lot of control, and possibly instigated a new gang war. It could also put Chev in undefined debt to her. Asking for a certain car to be found is a concrete, easily quantifiable, containable favor.”

“Thank you,” Chev said.

“While you were sleeping, Lafayette called me, wanting a more experienced opinion on what you got up to while you were visiting him last summer. You know what wasn’t wise?”

“Caring about other humans instead of being a carefree sociopath?”

“That is widely regarded as a bad move,” Reinette said, deadpan.

Friedrich didn’t look to be in the mood for jokes. “You found bugs in Lafayette’s home. And destroyed them. Immediately.”

“Yes? Should I have let persons unknown continue to spy on them?” Lafayette and Adrienne had been unsuccessful in determining for sure who’d planted the bugs, but Chev had left Charles’ device with them and they had diligently swept the place ever since. Charles made Chev another one when he heard what a good cause it was. Chev paid for the materials. 

“You should have fed them misinformation. You shouldn’t have let persons unknown notice that the moment a certain houseguest came, all their surveillance went dead. That sort of thing draws attention.”

Chev’s stomach filled with lead.

***

Shoni asked Pierre again. “Why did you accompany Charles d’Eon to France?”

Pierre stopped trying to consciously think ahead and just repeated what Fake!Reinette whispered in his ear. “Lafayette is an upstanding citizen, but his mother was a junkie and embroiled in scandals. Mr. 15’s people have been taking advantage of his desire to protect her and his family’s reputation by extension. She died shortly before my summer break. D’Eon was sent to discuss business with him, and took me along to...put the man in a good mood. These agents treat me like I’m they’re property, like being allowed to continue my studies is a reward for obedience and not my right, and they know he and his wife wanted to see me. Sweeten the deal. They had all their important discussions with each other while Adrienne was having her solo fun with me, so I don’t know any details. I know they’re in. Um. Cahoots.”

 _“It might be true,”_ Da’ir said, in Welsh.

 _“We don’t know if he’s not just a gifted storyteller unless we can check a primary source.”_ Shoni switched back to English. “We appreciate your candidness. Now that we’re all friends, I’m sure you have nothing against telling us your phone password.”

The password that would make all the chat logs visible, and completely contradict everything Pierre had said. “T-there’s stuff they’ll kill me for letting you see.”

“We’ve been over this. They’re not here. We are.”

***

This time, Pierre got roughed up a bit before going back to the predicament bondage. Also, they said he’d forfeited the privilege of any clothes other than underwear.

Getting beaten up wasn’t so bad. Pierre made the endorphins work in his favor. He closed his eyes and pretended he and Lafayette were trying something new, and maybe he didn’t like it much, but Adrienne was watching and enjoying it, so he’d tough it out for her. They just wouldn’t do the scene again. Do it once. Try anything once. 

“It’s still worth it,” Fake!Adrienne said. “You got some food and water and sleep.”

“You wouldn’t have been able to put together the language pieces without that sleep,” Fake!Ada added.

“Clench the muscles while Da’ir is tying your arms,” Fake!Reniette said. “The bonds will be looser when you relax.”

But Da’ir noticed. “None of that Houdini shite, it won’t help.”

When Da’ir took his next shift in the tent, Shoni came up to Pierre and prodded his knee. He murmured, “There’s other ways to prove your sad whore story. If I let you down and you don’t make a peep, we can see about a proper dinner and a nap on the floor before my pal wakes up.”

“Maybe you should have considered that Pierre can’t give fellatio to standard-size erections before advising him to come up with this lie,” Adrienne said to Reinette. “If that’s the option he’s implying.”

“He’s being rather elliptical in his rapeyness,” Ada agreed.

Reinette buried her face in her hands. “It’s not like we were expecting him to have to demonstrate. Let’s focus on the implication that Da’ir would disapprove.”

Shoni was displeased by Pierre’s lack of reply. “Or we could wait until he leaves for an errand. Then your cooperation won’t matter.”

Ada tried to sound encouraging. “Maybe he’s just trying to scare you.”

_It’s working._

 

***

Pierre remained unmolested for the next interminable amount of time. He was glad that Da’ir continued to be the one who facilitated toilet breaks. He was much less glad when he saw Da’ir pull a cord down from the ceiling that turned out to be a hatch.

Shoni fetched a ladder and held it steady for him. _“Have a nice long shower, for all our sakes.”_ Both of them laughed. 

Then Da’ir was gone, closing the hatch behind him. Shoni went to use the toilet himself. When he emerged, Pierre would have categorized his expression as “thoughtful”. “Phone code?”

Pierre shook his head. Shoni took a step towards him.

Then came a knock from the hatch. Likely a secret one, since it was arrhythmic. Da’ir opened it and stuck his head through. The following Welsh exchange was so fast that Pierre could barely follow it.

_"Shoni, there’s a girl, I think from the college, was nearby playing that Pokemon game and she stepped on a nail. Wore thin-soled shoes. Limped over here. Crying, lots of blood. I let her in and I just told her I’m fetching bandages. Where’s our first aid kit?"_

Shoni went to grab it from behind the tent, all the while growling, _“Are you mad? Couldn’t you just pretend to not be home?”_

_”She saw me at the window, mate. It’d be more suspicious if I didn’t help. Besides, she’s not going to find a carpet-covered hole in a hall cupboard. Just keep quiet.”_

_“If she hears something...”_ Shoni tossed up the first-aid kit.

Da’ir caught it. _“I won’t be a total bastard just ‘cause you’re careless. Thanks.”_

Reinette: “That might be Chev, especially since they'd totally make up a story that referenced how a Pokemon Go player helped you find them. Or less likely but possibly, it might be real me. Might not. You need to draw attention, regardless. Da’ir clearly doesn’t want to hurt that person. Don’t worry about that. You need to focus on you, and try.”

Adrienne: “But you might not get help immediately, or at all, and you mustn’t let them know you understood them.”

Ada: “Remember what Da’ir told you not to do, when tied up like this? Make it obvious, though. They know you have Tourette’s, so you can do it with a dramatic, supposedly involuntary gesture, dramatic enough it won’t occur to them that there was any other reason for you to scream.”

 _Yes._

Pierre closed his eyes and kicked away the step stool, immediately dislocating both his shoulders.


	37. running red to the stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The translations are simple Google; if I have erred, please alert me.

“David Davies” returned with a first-aid kit and sat on the floor in front of Chev. “Let’s get that shoe off and clean the wound first, sweetheart…”

Then Chev heard a scream. It wasn’t a scream for help. It was an involuntary scream in response to horrible pain. (Shaka had shown Chev a number of training videos; nonlethal combat did not have to mean non-injurious, even if Chev preferred it did when possible.)

Chev kicked Davies in the chest with the supposedly hurt foot. The fake blood had come in handy. They took out the large rock they’d placed in their purse earlier and threw it through the glass of the nearest window. It was a signal. They also took out their butterfly knife and crouched over the man, a knee pressing moderately on his groin and their left hand over his mouth. 

They gave the knife a theatrical twirl and said, very, very quietly, “I love Pierre more than I have ever loved anyone, and maybe even anything, in my entire life. Tell me where he is, you keep both your eyes.”

Information obtained, Chev made quick use of zip ties from their jacket pocket and one of the bandages from the first aid kit. They heard Ching Shih say, “I’ll keep my eyes on him and your things. You and your friend go.” Chev had been surprised that she’d offered to come along personally, but apparently her life debt to them demanded no less. 

Reinette was keeping watch outside. She’d been trained in self-defense but nothing more. The member of Ching Shih’s gang who’d originally found the car had been dispatched to fetch one of their mob doctors. 

Chev was the one who led Friedrich to the hidden basement entrance, but as prearranged, Friedrich went first. He had much more experience, and also a gun. It was Friedrich who jumped through the hole and tackled “Barnes”, allowing Chev to slip past.

Pierre had stopped screaming, but not because he was no longer in pain. Barnes had evidently cut him down from the rope dangling from the ceiling and put tape on his mouth, without undoing the harsh reverse prayer tie constraining his arms or fixing whatever it was that was making Pierre shiver and sob. Chev cut through the remaining rope and tore off the tape. 

They needed to stay calm, no matter how Pierre looked right now. He was in nothing but his underwear, massively bruised all over, dark circles under bloodshot eyes, a split lip, and tears and snot running down his face as he cried so hard he couldn’t say anything coherent. 

To be more comforting, Chev ripped off their wig (even though tearing out the bobby pins was painful), took off their non-prescription glasses, and removed the pads from inside their cheeks that had changed the shape of their face. Delving even deeper into their closet while waiting to hear from Ching Shih’s team had paid off. They didn’t have time to take out the colored contacts or remove the strategic makeup, but hopefully Pierre’s frantic mind could recognize Chev anyway. 

Pierre’s eyes darted to the pendant around their neck. _”Tu las trouvé…”_

“Yes, sweet P, I found it. You were very clever. Where are you hurt?” Chev didn’t want to touch him until they knew, or until Pierre touched them first. They couldn’t see any blood. 

_”Je veux ma mére. Ou est ma mére?”_

“I’ll get your mother as soon as I can, baby, but I need to know where you’re hurt.”

Then Chev realized some of the pained, frightened sounds in the room weren’t from Pierre. They turned. 

Friedrich had Barnes on the floor and wasn’t so much punching him as utterly pulverizing the man’s flesh and possibly bones. He was silent even as Barnes babbled and pleaded. Hitting. Hitting. Hitting. 

Chev didn’t appeal to reason. Chev appealed to the only thing that could be stronger than whatever was animating Friedrich’s red mist right now. “Pierre needs someone who knows field medicine!”

***

“Mein Schatz, you’ve dislocated your shoulders.”

 _“Je les sais!”_ Pierre was acutely aware, thank you very much. 

Friedrich knelt over him. “Listen to me. For a few seconds, your left shoulder will hurt more, but after that it will hurt less. You need to hold still for me.”

“Yes, Baron.” That was a good name for him. A safe name. He wasn’t angry at the Baron. The Baron knew best.

Pierre tried to be brave, but he screamed again when the joint was shoved back into place. 

“One more time, you’re doing well. You’re doing so well.”

Then his right shoulder. It was true, they both still hurt, but not as badly. Now it was just his wrists and his throat and every breath and his head and his eyes. Friedrich’s hands were wet and sticky.

_“Ne m’emrassez pas.”_

“That’s fine. No kissing. I need to carry you out of here, though, unless you want to walk.”

“Okay. _Je veux de l’eau._ ”

Chev brought Pierre water, and then Friedrich lifted him up carefully. It still hurt, but Pierre didn’t scream, he just squeaked. He was proud of himself for his restraint. Chev held a ladder and Friedrich carried him out of that slice of hell. 

Pierre was softly weeping rather than in total hysterics when they entered daylight again. He couldn’t see well without his glasses and after having had a harsh spotlight on him for so long. But there was an Asian woman of the right age waiting for him. Oh my god. Right when he needed her. There she was. He tried to reach out to her. _”Bạn đã đến khi nào?”_ How did his mother get here so quickly? Or had he been underground for a much longer time?

“He’s delirious and his mother’s Vietnamese, Empress,” Chev told her.

“Vietnamese-French,” Pierre snapped before asking the one person in the room he wasn’t at all angry at (for reasons he couldn’t remember right now) for a hug. Funny, his mother would usually have her arms around him by now. _“Tôi muốn một cái ôm.”_

Then another woman entered the room, with a bag. Chev - who Pierre was a little angry at, for some reason, but not as much as Friedrich - asked, “Pierre, do you want to sleep? She can help you sleep.”

Pierre nodded. He barely felt the needle go in.

***

When Pierre woke, he was in a dimly lit room in a very comfortable bed, dark red blankets and red and black wallpaper and a big red paper cutout on the door. The character for health. He was in his favorite flannel pajamas and fuzzy socks, and he felt clean and warm. There was a bottle of water. He drank half of it. 

Chev was sitting next to them, and had just paused something they’d been watching on their phone. They took out their earbuds. “Hey.”

“Do I have a needle in my arm?” His wrists were in braces, but he didn’t need help confirming that.

“It’s an IV. You were so dehydrated that the doctor wanted to start on rehydration before you woke. She’ll come along to remove it soon, when the bag is drained. Friedrich was able to relocate your shoulders, but the doctor had to do minor surgery to fix your dislocated wrists. Also you have a broken rib. That’s why you’re propped up and not lying flat. Better for breathing.”

“I thought it was bruised,” Pierre said.

“A lot was going on.” Chev put away both their phone and the earbuds. They handed him his recovered glasses. “May I touch you? You were dead set against Friedrich kissing you, but you didn’t have time to say how you felt about me.”

Pierre slowly reached out his arms. “This doesn’t mean I’m chill with all the lies.”

“I figured.” Chev leaned in for a gentle hug, and Pierre initiated a kiss. 

Then Pierre asked, “Am I allowed to eat?”

Chev reached down on the floor next to the bed and held up an insulated container. “I was given this. It’s rice porridge. Very plain, to be on the safe side, but there’s some tofu and vegetables in it. Sound good? Promise to pace yourself.”

 

Pierre didn’t ask his next question until he’d had half the dish. “Either this is an awfully Chinese-boudoir-themed hospital room, or we’re somewhere unconventional.”

“This is a private room in the DC-metropolitan-area temporary headquarters of a Chinese crime boss, who is also a pirate, whose life I happened to save earlier this month.”

“I have many questions about that.” But the prospect exhausted him. “Is there something to drink other than water?”

“You can have some of my Sprite.”

“Gimme.” Pierre drank all of it, because sometimes pettiness is all you have. “I’m pretty sure a French politician named Maximilien Robespierre instigated this.”

Chev raised their eyebrows. “How do you know?”

“Can I tell you later? Just warn Lafayette, for now. If he wants to know more right away, I’ll tell him.”

While Pierre finished his food, Chev sent a few texts. 

“Will you finally be honest?”

Chev nodded.

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

“No. I’m a specifically non-lethal agent. I also choose not to do stuff that would harm kids and things like that. It’s not a free-for-all.”

“Did you get home after we rescued you and find a man in a black coat and an eyepatch looming in your room who said he wanted to talk to you about the Secret Agent Initiative?”

“No. Reinette told me her boss was intrigued after Friedrich contacted him for help making Claude’s trial smooth and not need my involvement.”

Pierre admitted that explained a lot. “Have you ever lied to me other than about your job?”

“I actually hate that purple sweater vest of yours.”

Pierre surprised himself by laughing, then stopped because it hurt his rib. “But not about other stuff.”

“No. Never.” 

“Are Shoni and Da’ir still alive? Shoni’s the one with the mole.”

“They’re alive.”

“Have you turned them over to the police?”

“Not yet.” Chev sounded like they were choosing their words with care. “It’s...delicate. Things to consider. But they’re being treated better than they treated you.”

“Okay.” Shelve that for later, too. Pierre breathed in. Out. Considered. “When I arrive anywhere after a long plane ride, I never unpack anything other than the barest essentials until I've had some rest. So just one more question for now. ”

“Anything.” 

“What were you watching?”

Chev let out a short laugh of surprise. “Pirated download of Revolutionary Girl Utena. I loved that anime when I was a teenager. It’s got gender nonconformity, quite much lesbian very, tons of fancy fantastical fencing, a shadowy corrupt student council, messed up people manipulating each other…my high school girlfriend dressed up as Anthy to my Utena when we went to an anime convention, actually. I still have the pink wig at my parents' house.”

“Sit up here and watch with me. I’ll yell at you and demand explanations later.”

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like not everyone would want to have a deep, serious discussion full of intense revelations right after such a traumatic experience, you know? 
> 
> As for RGU, I've never watched that anime, nor read the manga, but I had a friend in middle school who was a huge fan. It occurred to me that Chev would like it. And of course there is the meta joke of there also being a real anime based on d'Eon (if following the character tag is how you found this fic, hi!). Since I can't make my Chev a fan of THAT anime, this is the next best thing. 
> 
> To confirm this, I just looked up the opening sequence of Revolutionary Girl Utena, and yes, that is so what Chev's aesthetic would have been as a teen. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HL25C0H9vVw


	38. you know you grow your own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story needs to have a lengthy denoument, given how many plot threads need sorting out. Pierre's life is saved, but now we have to fix it, not to mention sort out everyone around him...
> 
> ***
> 
> Brace yourself for a non-graphic list of things that happen to you if you disappoint Ching Shih. Most involve losing body parts or death.

_Standard benefits of membership in Ching Shih’s Empire include:_

_\- Equal share in all profits made by your ship/cell/squad/division, except for a 5% bonus given to an individual if they went above and beyond in obtaining that profit_  
_\- Strong efforts made to rescue you from capture, if you were without fault_  
_\- A pension, either at age 60 or in the event of incapacitating ailment_  
_\- Free health care_  
_\- Protection for loved ones (within reason)_  
_\- Opportunities for merit-based promotions_

_Be advised:_

_\- Disobedience is punished by loss of an ear, because you didn’t use it to listen._

_\- Gross incompetence is punished by loss of an eye, because you didn’t use it for foresight._

_\- Taking more than your share is punished by loss of fingers/hand, in proportion to the amount you reached for._

_\- Accidentally sharing secrets, or sharing secrets under torture, is punished by loss of your tongue, so you will have less difficulty with slips of the tongue in future._

_\- Sharing secrets intentionally is punished by loss of tongue and being handed over to the authorities with all the evidence needed to convict you, as unlike the former case, you have no alibi. Don’t think you will be able to spin this by testifying against us in writing. It will be Chinese authorities with whom we have an understanding, and who are looking for convict organs to sell._

_\- Gratuitous harm to the inoffensive and cooperative is punished by facial mutilation, because the world should see your inner ugliness._

_\- Trying to walk away from the Empire without permission is punished by loss of a foot. If we are sympathetic to the circumstances, we will provide a good prosthetic._

_\- Rape is punished by drowning, in tribute to the tears of your victim._

_\- Attempted usurpation or any exceeding of your authority is punished by beheading, as you thought you could become a new head._

_We are an equal-opportunity employer._

***

“Will you be offended if I - with great respect and gratitude - decline to work directly for you?” Chev asked.

Ching Shih reached across the desk and withdrew the papers. “Not at all. I thought you might. Are you open to working indirectly for us, in future?”

“Yes, Empress.”

“I appreciate that you asked for help only with the part of finding your lover that you couldn’t do yourself. Some in your position would have asked for us to do all of the work.” She paused, twisting one of the many gold rings she was wearing today. Her outfit was a simple red button-up shirt and black pants. It was said it was a bad sign when she wore all white (mourning color, bone color, ghost color). It meant she was planning on spilling blood and wanted it to show. Red was good.

“I wouldn’t wish to overstep, Empress.”

“That’s why I am telling you that you haven’t used up your favors. Simple and reasonable requests like these are nothing. I am including the maintenance of the two abductors. They have no idea what’s going on, but as you’ve requested, they’re getting a healthy amount of food and drink through the door slot, and have basic supplies available to them. Your friend has impressive knowledge of how to inflict a lot of pain requiring very little medical attention. Is there any chance…?”

“He’s retired, Empress. It was an emergency.” And Chev was not looking forward to Friedrich and Pierre’s first few interactions. Hopefully, they would not be their last few, as well. Chev would support Pierre no matter what, but Friedrich brought things into Pierre’s life that Chev would hate to see Pierre lose. Friedrich was a friend to Chev, too, and a fantastic metamour.

It was a relief to hear that Barnes hadn’t been as injured as he seemed. Chev didn’t care much about the degree of pain he experienced, but it showed that Friedrich hadn’t lost control to the extent Chev had worried.

She nodded. “Such it is, when you want to recruit. You may review recordings of their conversations at any time. I am told that most of it is not in English, which may be a complication. What are your longer-term plans?”

Chev sighed. “I’m afraid I need to consult a few people first. It should take less than a week before I have an answer. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes, that’s fine. If you wanted us to keep them indefinitely, that wouldn’t be a burden either. Do you know what we do with our own captives?” She looked at Chev, expectantly.

Reading up on her empire had been worthwhile. This aspect in particular had been illuminating about what "Ching's Widow" herself might have gone through before Ching married her and treated her as an equal, not his property. “Ransom terms are honored scrupulously, if negotiations fall through the captive can earn their freedom with a proportionate amount of labor, not to exceed five years, and if a woman turns out to not have any wealthy connections, she might simply be freed. The reasoning is that disproportionate number of victims of human trafficking are women, at least something can be in their favor. Men, women, or otherwise, captives who cooperate come to no harm.” It wasn’t something Chev was comfortable in participating in, but a sufficient improvement on many other gangs that Chev was willing to be a contractor for unrelated endeavors.

“Correct, but that’s kidnapped civilians who haven’t wronged us. Many of our ranks were once in that position, including my right-hand-man and current husband, who chose to stay and rise up in our leadership. The only reason we don’t sell those who have wronged us for organs is that I believe it’s a dangerous precedent to make dead bodies a potential source of money. Inevitably, a number of captains would find more and more trivial reasons to execute anyone they disliked.” Ching Shih sipped her chrysanthemum tea, the dried flowers having bloomed in her cup. “This is my long way of saying that whatever you want done, you will neither be mocked for softness nor stared at for harshness.”

Chev nodded. They’d read that she had a second husband, but hadn’t realized that it was Cheung Po Tsai. It made sense. “Thank you, Empress. I’m going to get the input necessary from various parties so that Pierre can make an informed decision. He’s been kept in the dark long enough, and he’s the one they put their hands on.”

“That is wise. My first husband could have easily kept me purely as a personal companion, but he chose to include me in his life. Even if Pierre chooses not to be an active part - my son has chosen to live a quiet life in the manner of his foster family - let him know.” Her phone beeped and she checked the message. “Ah, the doctor says Pierre is in a well enough condition to go home. Also that he speaks excellent Mandarin.”

****

Text message exchange:

Ada: Can I tell CD/LC that Pierre’s ok? From what I hear he felt guilty.

Chev: if you want

Ada: how’s Pierre?

Chev: physically not too bad, otherwise ask him

Ada: Does he know I was involved?

Chev: not yet. Can I tell him?

Ada: If you think he can handle it. hug him for me, if wanted

***

Pierre understood that it was nothing personal that he be blindfolded on his way out of a secret criminal hideout, but his heart pounded anyway. Chev kept an arm around his waist and talked to him soothingly as the silent driver (who seemed to have lost his left ear in an accident) took them to the place Chev had parked their own car.

“It’s to protect you as well as them,” Chev said, once they were in their car and Pierre was in blessed daylight again. “Deniability is precious. You can talk to Francesco and Marie about it. That’s why I promise to stop lying, but I reserve the right to say ‘I can’t tell you.’”

“So Francesco and Marie are in on it?” Pierre was unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He was having trouble putting on his seatbelt with both his wrists in braces, but he gave Chev a death glare when they looked like they were going to try helping.

“Fritz isn’t affiliated with the Agency, so he can tell whoever he wants about anything he’s done. Reinette and Marie are married. Unless your spouse works for law enforcement or the press or a rival gang or something, it’s very easy to have them designated as your one permitted non-Agency confidante. Screened therapists don’t count, thank God -”

“Your therapist knows?”

“My therapy wouldn’t be very effective if she didn’t.” Chev slowed down at the yellow light, even more than what was warranted.

“It’s funny; I’m not that surprised that you’re mercenary spy material, but you drive more carefully than anyone I’ve ever met.” Pierre now that a crumpled gum wrapper he’d left in a cupholder five days ago was still there, and the difference between him and the Pierre who had done that made him oddly tearful.

“You know how I hate showing anyone my license,” Chev said, carefully turning on their turn signal well ahead of time. “My trainer made fun of me when he taught me car theft skills.”

“You stole a car?”

“I practiced on his car, which was horrifying because he likes to booby-trap them, but yeah, I had to steal a random person’s car to complete the qualification. I hid it afterwards and mailed an anonymous tip saying where to find it again, Pierre. And I picked out a really nice car. Someone with a crappy car is going to be worse off with a few carless days. I don’t plan on having to steal cars often. It’s not part of my niche.” Chev glanced over with Pierre, body tense despite how casually they’d spoken.

Pierre gathered his thoughts. “I’m..wow....another funny thing, I’m less bothered by the morality aspect of that than I would have expected. But if you go to jail, I’m terrified what would happen to you. I don’t have much faith in the courts to be understanding of your gender, given their track record, but could you, I don’t know, have it taken into account that you’re indisputably medically intersex?”

Chev gave him a chagrined half-smile. “I’ll tell you all my contingency plans sometime when we’ve got a few hours of nothing more important to talk about. It’s nice to hear that’s where your heart is. That’s the main reason it’s easier to get clearance to tell the truth to a legally wedded partner. You can apply for someone who you’re not married to, but it’s harder. I’ve tried. Mr. 15 said we haven’t been dating long enough.”

A part of Pierre that had frozen in that basement started to thaw. He didn’t doubt Chev when they said they’d tried. As one of the few people Chev had been genuinely intentionally vulnerable with, Pierre could tell that the sorrow and frustration in Chev’s voice at that part had been real. “Wait, I don’t follow about the married couples.”

“They can’t be forced to testify against each other in court,” Chev said quietly.

“Oh.” Pierre had a vision of being on a witness stand and watching Chev in handcuffs, calmly defiant despite the knowledge that their destiny was men’s prison.

“You can’t get a new confidante if your previous one is still alive, so if you break up or get divorced, tough. So...if you don’t want to lose any more deniability, tell me now. You’re my only chance for as long as you live.”

That wasn’t terrifying at all, no sir. “Did you get clearance to tell me from Mr. 15, finally?”

“Not yet. I haven’t been back to work or talked to him since you went missing. Reinette’s got some cover story going.”

Pierre’s mouth went dry. “What happens if he doesn’t think this was sufficient cause?”

“Standard procedure would be for me to be framed for a major felony and tossed to the wolves. Reinette would mitigate it as best she could, since she DOES think this was sufficient cause, but she signed the same contract I did.” How could Chev sound so casual about that?

“Charles-Genevieve. Beaumont. D’Eon.”

Chev was quiet for two blocks. Then they said, going for soothing again, “It’s okay, I have dirt on him. He’ll give me what I want once I lay it all out.”

“Nuh uh. That’s not enough. You’re going to sit down with me and we’re going to work on it together, because if it involves me, especially you putting yourself in danger for me, you don’t get to wave me off like that. Being vague about a mission, that’s one thing, but ‘don’t worry, I’ve got it covered, I totally won’t get hauled off to an incredibly volatile and transphobic environment where you can’t see me or help me’ is bullshit. If you can’t tell me what the blackmail is, I get it, but I want to know how you’re going to deploy it, and what you’re going to do if it doesn’t scare him.” Pierre wished he could bang a fist on something.

“Okay.”

“In exchange, I’ll make a recording of the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth of everything that happened to me, and you can listen to it, and use it as you think relevant to making us and Lafayette and Adrienne and Henriette safe and there being justice. I’m not sure I’ll have the courage to tell the whole thing to your face. Also, you’re going to help me sort out my feelings about Friedrich and what I’m gonna say to him Got it? Huh?”

“If you do your wrist rehab exercises scrupulously.”

Pierre’s voice and conviction faded, became uncertain. “Meanwhile, school. It’s only Wednesday on a week where we didn’t have class on Monday, but I’m not sure if I. Can I pick everything up again? It feels overwhelming.”

“Will North actually went around collecting your homework assignments and handouts and getting copies of your classmates’ lecture notes, if that makes you feel better. I suspect Friedrich conscripted him.” For various reasons, Will needed one more semester to graduate.

“I’ll think about it after a shower and dinner,” Pierre decided.

“Always an excellent plan.”

“Help me come up with a lie about my wrists, too.” Pierre’s shoulders still hurt a little, but they were hidden and functioned well enough that he wouldn’t have to explain those.

Neither of them spoke again until they were on their street. Pierre felt like their apartment building was glowing and a choir singing. Hooooooome. Chev said, “The Welcome to Night Vale twitter account had a tweet once that went along the lines of, ‘Whisper a dangerous secret to someone you care about. Now they can destroy you, but they won’t. That’s what love is.’”

A metaphorical kitten curled up and fell asleep inside Pierre’s chest. Chev tentatively reached to help Pierre with his seatbelt. This time, Pierre let them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been saving that Night Vale quote since I started the fic.


	39. turn up the light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for a reference to dysphoria-type thoughts. Also, Chev compares James Bond and Deadpool near the end of the chapter, and in so doing says some very mild, vague spoilers to the Deadpool movie. The Bond part could apply to pretty much any Bond media.

“Okay, we’ve got the ingredients for me to make spinach, ricotta, and bacon savory crepes, and maybe if there’s enough batter for extra crepes we could put sugar and lemon juice on them. If you’re in the mood for something else that’s fine. Including pizza or Thai delivery or anything. Won’t hurt my feelings.” 

“Sounds yumful. Go ahead.” Pierre was standing in the middle of their living room uncertainly, as if he’d been gone for years and doubted his welcome. He spent a few seconds in a daze before he started removing his outdoor autumn clothing. Reinette had the great idea of packing both pajamas and street clothes for Pierre, to keep in the car during the rescue, along with underwear, shoes, socks, jacket and hat. Similar to what Pierre had done for Chev last year. Chev had too much on their mind to think of it on their own at the time. 

Ching Shih did not permit Friedrich or Reinette to follow them to her hideout - Chev was only allowed because of her debt to them, and Pierre out of necessity and part of Chev’s favor - so they’d stayed behind to find Pierre’s belongings.

Speaking of which: “Reinette said she put everything they lifted from you in a bundle on the dining table. Including your phone, since it would have been tricky to get it to you and Ching Shih is strict about who is or isn’t allowed to have cell phones in her confidential locations.” Chev and Pierre had each chosen a person to have an additional key to their apartment, in case of emergencies. Friedrich was Pierre’s, which was one of the many issues that needed addressing.

“Found it,” Pierre said. He read out a post-it note. “She left my phone charging...there it is. She washed the clothes. That was nice of her.”

She’d told Chev that the clothes had been crusted with mud and grass stains, soaked with sweat, and what might have been a drip or two of blood. Chev decided not to volunteer this information.

“Francesco called me nineteen times, and there’s an alert saying my voicemail is full. Wow. Did you tell him you found me? I need to thank him soon.”

Chev nodded. They took Pierre’s jacket off the floor and hung it up next to theirs in the coat nook.

Pierre decided he’d have a bath while Chev cooked. By silent, mutual agreement, he left the door open. Chev helped him wrap plastic around his wrist braces to keep them dry. 

Neither of them said much over dinner. There were enough crepes to convert into dessert format, and Pierre expressed undying love and got up to kiss Chev. After the kiss, Chev wiped a smear of sugar and lemon from Pierre’s cheek, then playfully put the finger in their mouth. “I think I’ll shower. I haven’t since before we found you. Washed my face to get the disguise makeup off, that’s all. You going to be okay? I want to shut the door. Been stressed.”

Chev was more prone to being self-conscious about people seeing them naked when they were stressed, but that wasn’t the main reason. Under the white noise of the running water, Chev let themself cry, the way they hadn’t had time for when Pierre was in a wretched little ball and near-naked and screaming and sobbing with pain and Chev couldn’t and Chev didn’t and...

The shower soothed them somewhat, and thankfully they were at peace today with the contradictions of their body. They often wondered if they wouldn’t feel so contradictory if they hadn’t always heard from 95% of everyone that it was a contradiction. They would like to always be the Chev they were on best days, where every part of them was just as whole and lovely to them as every part of Pierre.

That didn’t mean they were enthusiastic about running into the living room with nothing but a robe on, but they heard a crashing noise and there wasn’t time to get dressed and _I thought this part was over_.

Only to find Will on top of Pierre on the couch with a hand down his sweatpants and the other holding him down, growling, “...see me during a drill, you’d see I can separate out getting yelled at for kink and following real orders, and what about you, does it get you hot any time someone says anyone remotely nice…”

Pierre saw Chev, presumably out the corner of his vision, and his eyes widened. “It’s green!” Will looked, abruptly let go, and sat back on his haunches. 

The war drums in Chev’s ears faded away. “Is it a sane green, minibon?” By which Chev meant if Pierre’s consent wasn’t distorted by an atypical emotional state. Because Pierre was trembling in a way he didn’t with Chev, Lafayette, or Adrienne. That might just mean a different vibe because Will was a different playmate, but Chev wanted to be careful. As far as they knew, Pierre had never played with Will without Friedrich and Benjy as guardians and referees. Will, who had a volatile, bickering, though deep-down-caring relationship with him.

“I checked in,” Will said nervously. “Being careful with the wrists.”

“Maybe this is a bad idea,” Pierre said. He sat up, still shaky. 

“I’m not mad at you. You were bringing Pierre the notes you collected for him, right? Then I assume you traded barbs anyway and it got a bit hate-sexy?”

“We don’t hate each other. We think of it as annoyance molestation,” Pierre said.

“Pierre’s not currently interested in full fu-I mean, intercourse, with me, I mean.” Will moved back even further and sat on the couch like a normal guest. 

“I haven’t told Will what happened because…”

“And that’s fine, I respect that!”

“So he didn’t know that this isn’t a good headspace for me to be doing intense stuff, especially intense stuff without...Benjy...here. I got caught up in the moment.” Pierre moved next to Will and put a hand on his thigh.

“Sorry to ruin your quiet evening,” Will said.

Pierre shook his head and pulled Will into a deep, tender kiss. Proof. “We can talk later, okay? Chev just means that I’d probably start crying or feel way too tired in the morning and other undesirable stuff.”

“All right.” Will kissed Pierre’s left temple. “Whatever’s happening, hope you feel better. And so on. Maybe I’ll express further annoyance when it’s better timing?”

“Sounds good.” Pierre smirked. “Assuming you manage it before you have to pay your dues to the military and they destroy every trace of your wit and individuality. There’s not much to start with, so...”

Will grinned and flipped him off.

***

Chev saw that Pierre was still wound up, both mentally and physically, so they asked if a nurturing-style D/S blowjob would be welcome. Pierre asked for the Quiet Game instead. There were a few rules for the Quiet Game, but the main one was that Chev’s hands stopped for five full seconds each time Pierre made a noise. 

As usual, everybody won. Then Pierre read the notes Will brought and discussed his game plan for tomorrow with Chev. They advised Pierre to keep their explanation simple, something like, “Went climbing,” and then look upset and change the subject. Or just tell people to mind their own business, even if that made people think Chev did it. Pierre said he doubted anyone would think Chev was capable of hurting Pierre against his will. 

“In reality, could you dislocate my wrists if you wanted to?” Pierre asked.

Chev’s answer was garbled from toothpaste, but they conveyed that yes, they could.

Pierre was doing the doctor-approved wrist exercises, and seemed to be distracting himself from the discomfort. “I know you have some kind of moral code, like, with the going to all the effort to learn nonlethal combat and returning the car you stole. Which is helpful. To making this work, I mean. I realize this might be too deep a question for bedtime, and I can wait until tomorrow for the answer, but, uh, do you have a general one, I guess?”

Chev rinsed, spat, and started on the dental floss. “Moral code? I can show you my list of limits sometime, stuff I explicitly say I won’t do for a job, but all the times I imagined coming clean with you, I had a specific analogy in mind. To unify it.”

“Oh?”

“I believe that the version of Deadpool shown in the Deadpool movie is a much better person than the version of James Bond shown in Skyfall. I keep this analogy to one movie each and no other media, since characterization varies so much between writers and incarnations.” Also, the two of them had watched those movies together, so Chev knew Pierre would get the references.

“I wasn’t expecting those two, but go on.”

Chev continued all through the rest of their bedtime preparations, and as they returned to the bedroom, and in the dark as they tucked themself and Pierre in and they settled into rest.

Chev said that Bond and Deadpool both lie, cheat, steal, and kill. Deadpool does it with more glee, but when someone shoots you in the head, you don’t really care whether they do it grimfaced or while cracking jokes. They both do these things because it’s their occupation. They each have other reasons. Deadpool - in the movie - kills for revenge on some horrific people, and also to save someone he loves. Bond kills for the sake of his country, and one might argue through personal loyalty to Judi Dench’s version of M. 

It’s because Bond kills for his country, because his government legally sanctions his rampages of blood and destruction, that he is not a criminal. Chev’s personal morality considered this _bullshit_. Chev did not believe that one person deserves better than another person because of where they happened to be born, or that you owe any stranger more because they share a flag with you than if they don’t. Chev did not believe that because a government says to do it, that automatically makes it better. Some laws protected people, some laws hurt people, and some were merely convenient for governments to the point of arbitrary. Nothing Fritz, for example, had ever done was worse than anything an 18th century monarch might have done, even one considered in a positive light. The difference happened to be that the Fritz they knew was not a king.

“So at this point, I consider them on par with each other. Now let’s consider what I’ll call in-profession morality. At one point, pre-Deadpoolization…”

“That’s a wonderful noun,” Pierre interjected, snuggling in close.

Chev yawned. It felt like geologic ages since they’d had a good night’s sleep. “Wade Wilson is hired to deal with someone, but he decides the guy is sad and pathetic and just needs a good scare. Plus he returns the money because he’s sympathetic to the client, who doesn’t have much money anyway. Then, near the end of the movie…”

“Post-Deadpoolization.”

“Hah, right. He’s about to attack his nemesis, right? But he takes a moment to loudly announce to all the henchmen that he has nothing personal against them, that their boss is treating them as disposable, and that if they walk away right now he will let them go. Has James Bond ever, ever, ever, in the history of ever, seen a mook as a human being rather than an obstacle to mow down?”

“I would like to point out that neither of us have seen all the movies or read all the original Ian Fleming novels, but I get your point. Not his style.”

“It might be not purely altruistic, because that would make the fight easier if a bunch simply left, but Deadpool and his allies barrel through them anyway. He would have known they would. He can break the fourth wall and knows tropes. It was mostly altruistic. Especially when he spares a henchman who he recognizes as an old colleague! Everyone we see Deadpool fight in the movie is either an unambiguously bad person or a superpowered person who is way more powerful than him, and in the latter case he’s not fighting to kill. And yet he sees the nuance. When he doesn’t have to kill. When he can give a choice.”

“Also Skyfall!Bond doesn’t show a good understanding of enthusiastic, non-problematic consent.”

“That too. Plus, Wade Wilson loves his love interest in a way that feels respectful and companionable and warm, you know? Skyfall!Bond might be aromantic, that’s fine if he is, but he’s really terrible to his sexual partners, even when consent seems clear.”

“Yeah, from what I hear, the only aro but not ace person I know personally is great to his sexual partners both inside and outside the bedroom.” Pierre moved his arms to get more comfortable. “I like the analogy, thanks. Though it makes me think about talking things out with Friedrich. That was a hidden reason Will got me riled up. I envied that he doesn’t know.”

“One step at a time. Tomorrow we get up, separately record our accounts of what happened, separately listen, then over lunch we discuss what I’m going to say to Mr. 15.”

“Then you’ll take me to class, because I don’t feel like riding a bicycle all alone down a street just yet. Even in the afternoon.”

“Yes.” Soft silence followed.

Chev thought Pierre was asleep, then Pierre said, “I’m not in unified chorus with your morals, Chevy, but I think...I think maybe we can harmonize.”

It was the best night’s sleep Chev had in eleven months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I agree with Chev that this version of Deadpool is a better person than this version of James Bond, but I disagree with how to apply that concept to your own life. To make this story work we don't need to fully agree with Chev, though, we just have to root for them.
> 
> Fun fact: I went through a huge 00Q shipping phase after Skyfall came out, and still don't mind a good fic with that ship if it comes my way, though my days writing it are over, partly because I'm uninterested in SPECTRE.


	40. takin' your time to fight for me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pierre surprised me, too. I hope it makes sense!

Chev waited until both of them had listened to each other’s recorded testimonies - in separate rooms - before expressing their most important thought. “You have a superpower. A real superpower.” They were glad Pierre had asked they listen separately, so that Chev had gotten their initial wtf’s out of the way. 

“Another reason why I’m less mad at you that you expected is I realize the slight hypocrisy,” Pierre said, a sheepish smile on his face.

“At least your secret’s pretty damn cool. And very damn sexy.” Chev definitely wanted to explore this with Pierre when they had time.

“So’s yours. Can we talk about what you’re gonna say to Mr. 15, now?”

Pierre hadn’t done any of the reading or homework due for his two classes today, but he said that wasn’t his priority. He could bluff. He could take a tiny hit to his grade. What mattered was knowing how Chev planned to go from here with their boss. If sharing Pierre’s recording with him would help Chev or Lafayette, then Pierre gave his permission.

***

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Seems a bit extreme.”

“You can’t count on just blackmail, Chev, you need something to offer, and I’ll do it. Given our circumstances, it’s not like it’ll be a hardship. At least not for me. Would it be for you?”

“Pierre, if I thought you thought along those lines, we would have done that for its own sake last November.”

***

Less than two hours later, Chev was sitting in Mr. 15’s office, playing Pierre’s testimony. Chev watched Mr. 15’s face over the course of the six minutes and twenty-five seconds. 

When it was over, Mr. 15 kneaded his temples. “I would have appreciated knowing your boyfriend was also sleeping with von Steuben and Lafayette and was a close friend to Reinette. Don’t think that I don’t remember you acting coy and letting me assume Lafayette was nothing more than a friendly acquaintance to you.”

Chev replied with a neutral look and a neutral, “Sir.”

“I assume you considered this protecting Pierre.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll retroactively grant you permission to confide in Pierre, since you couldn’t have rescued him without raising questions, but I’ll need him to sign the relevant NDA’s. I’m not happy, but it would be unreasonable for me to pitch a fit over this.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Mr. 15 drank some of what Chev suspected was cognac. At least it was the kind of glass suitable for drinking cognac in. Chev tried to imagine Mr. 15 drinking Kool-Aid, and squashed down the giggles. “It sounds like the Welsh thugs were likely working for Robespierre, but go get as much detail as you can out of them, and bring that information to me so we can address the threat intelligently. Ask Unruffled to recommend someone to help you with the process if you don’t feel up to it on your own. Or ask Ching Shih’s people to find out for you. They’ll be good for tidying the men away, as well. That should settle the affair. Is Pierre interested in being added to our roster? His unique skill could have a lot of applications.”

“He’s not interested, sir.” Chev steeled themself. They didn’t want Shoni and Da’ir killed, but that detail belonged to a different conversation. This was more immediate. “I’m afraid that plan is insufficient. It doesn’t guarantee Lafayette and his family’s safety, and Pierre loves them and went through hell for them as well as for us, and you’re going to stop screwing with Lafayette and help me make sure nobody else does either. Ever again. Sir.”

There was a silence for Mr. 15’s brain to process what Chev had just said. Then he near-snarled, _”Est tu devenu fou?”_

“I haven’t gone crazy, sir. I’m making a justified conclusion that you wouldn’t want me to tell Reinette or Marie what you made Louise do two years ago, before she started working here. Before you say anything, she didn’t tell me, and you can review security tapes all you want if you need assurance. Don’t blame her for my curiosity. I talked to her when she’d been crying, and she just said that there was just a stupid argument involving hospital records. I didn’t ask further, because I didn’t want to upset her more and I really didn’t want you to punish her. But I needed to know more, as a survivor of an abusive relationship who is also a spy -”

“And someone always looking for leverage.” There was nothing _near_ about this. It was a snarl.

Chev didn’t bother denying it. “I happen to have greater than average knowledge of how the birth certificate system works, since I went through a lot of effort to get my name changed with I was eighteen and a lot of unsuccessful effort to make it say neither or both M/F. I also have greater than average knowledge - for someone not in the field - of hospital records, having spent so much time rooting out how I’ve been labeled and examined and categorized since birth. Different search, similar pathways. Louise had a baby two years ago, recorded as a girl, and that baby was immediately given up for closed adoption. Immediately. Everything prearranged. Whoosh. Did she even have time to hold her?”

“She agreed it was for the best,” Mr. 15 said, quietly, but words still harsh.

“Did she agree because she really agreed, or because she was scared of you? Because she needed you? Did a little more digging, she used to be a stripper and aspiring model, which are both completely okay occupations that I have no problem with morally, but don’t lend themselves to respect and stability in our society. Not her fault. I can see how it’d lend itself to serious power imbalance, you being a king with your secret kingdom.”

“You call me your king and you talk to me like that?”

“To paraphrase the song ‘No Church in the Wild’, what’s a king to a god? And what’s a god to an unbeliever? I believe that it’s worth using leverage on you for Pierre’s sake. I believe that you won’t risk the disapproval of two women who represent perhaps the only people you love unselfishly and unconditionally, and who treat you like a real person, call you out when you need really need calling out, who you are a human with. I saw. You know you might lose them. You can’t lose them.”

Mr. 15 sat back in his chair. The clock ticked. Ticked. “You are very lucky that the way you’re pissing me off is also a demonstration of how capable you are, and therefore not worth firing out of spite. Yet.”

“Thank you, sir. You might be more pleased to know that I learned that Marie Antoinette Habsburg is doing a weekend poker tournament in Las Vegas in two weeks, that she and Mr. 16 now have an arrangement of sorts, and that I know something about her that will get her to be willing to talk to me if I approach her in the right way.”

Mr. 15 raised an eyebrow and made a “go-on” gesture.

“And that Pierre and I have decided that if it would make you feel better, Pierre would come to Las Vegas with me, amuse himself separately when I’m doing murky things, and we’d go to one of those cheap chapels and secretly get...uh….” Chev had no problem with this except for being worried that Pierre would regret it, but Pierre had been adamant. “...Get civilly married. We could just go to a city hall, but we want to do it in a far away place that sees lots of weird little ceremonies all the time, for anonymity. Whoever suspects I work for you might still be watching. Also, a Vegas wedding is a fun trope.” 

“Hmm. Yes, I would feel better. Don’t expect a gift or reimbursement for expenses though.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go away, you’ve given me a headache.”

***  
Text message conversation:

CHEV: It worked. You said you would marry me, but will you?

PIERRE: I will!

CHEV: Still worried this is the trauma talking. been dating 1 year!

PIERRE: Been friends since I was a freshman! 

CHEV: how was class?

PIERRE: survivable. I got an offer for a ride home

CHEV: ok, see you at home for dinner, gotta pick up groceries

PIERRE: Even if we broke up, you know I wouldn’t betray you.

CHEV: I’m not worried about what happens to me

PIERRE: as long as you don’t demand monogamy it’s np. 

CHEV: Sure?

PIERRE: i saved you, you saved me, we’d better stick together

CHEV: <3 <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I melded two historical moments together: the Chevalier d'Eon blackmailing Louis XV to pardon treason charges, and Louis XV forcing his mistress Marie Louise O'Murphy to give up her daughter which he fathered. The daughter was sent to be raised by nice nuns and had a huge trust fund and got excellent care, but that doesn't make it okay. O'Murphy did eventually have and keep her own children with someone else in later life. 
> 
> Oh, and O'Murphy came from a poor family where the girls often became prostitutes and such for survival. She came to Louis XV's notice when, at age 14, she posed for a nude painting by Francois Boucher and he saw it. He asked if the model really looked like that, and when he was told yes, he said he wanted to see for himself. Classy, right?
> 
> Here's the painting. https://slm-assets1.secondlife.com/assets/2398628/view_large/742px-Marie-Louise_O%27Murphy_(1737-1818)_painted_by_Francois_Boucher_(1703%E2%80%931770).jpg?1288106673


	41. take back the dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for light discussion of mutilation.
> 
>  
> 
> Unrelated, but depression feels like pushing through cold sludge up to my neck, ugh.

Pierre had gotten out of class and turned his phone off to find a message from Benjy, asking if he’d like a ride. Pierre accepted. It was time they talked.

Benjy was waiting for him in the nearest parking lot, leaning against the car with his hands tucked into the pockets of his gleaming leather jacket, and getting checked out by people of all genders as they walked by. Pierre had no romantic feelings for him, nor a desire to have sex one-on-one, but Benjamin Walker looked like Michelangelo's repressed dreams. 

“Hey there. What level of contact are you comfortable with?”

Pierre’s physical tic for the past few hours had been peeling off his fingerless gloves and then putting them back on again. He repeated that now. “Hug, and if you want to kiss the top of my head, that’d feel comforting rather than patronizing.”

That done, and done well, Benjy helped Pierre take off his backpack without hurting his wrists and buckled his seatbelt for him in the passenger seat of the car. 

“I asked to leave early for family reasons, which was not a lie, so I’m free for the rest of the day. I can take you directly home, or…” Benjy glanced at Pierre’s face. “If you want to talk to Friedrich, you two could talk at my place instead of his or yours, for more neutral ground. Don’t assume I’m automatically on his side. I can be in another room for privacy and take you home when you’re ready.”

“Do you know why I’m mad at him?”

“Yes. He told me everything, and I mean everything. I’ve known about his past since we were discussing whether to be primaries or not. Are you mad I didn’t tell you?”

Pierre patted Benjy’s shoulder. “It wasn’t your secret to tell. Call him and tell him to meet us, please.”

***

The apartment was empty when they got there. Friedrich would arrive in about fifteen minutes. Pierre had been to Benjy’s place only once before, when Pierre came to help him move in when he moved back to the area after years of living in New York State. 

Benjy got Pierre settled in an armchair with a surprisingly good homemade smoothie, despite the alarming green color that heralded kale, and put the Aftercare Bear that Will got him for Christmas (since Benjy loved taking charge of aftercare) within easy reach. 

Before Benjy let Friedrich approach Pierre, he said a few soft words that Pierre didn’t catch. He led Friedrich to the living room, and said brightly, “I’ll be in the bedroom watching Netflix with headphones on. Door isn’t locked. You may come find me for any reason. I love you both and am not going to take sides. Any questions?”

“Not for you,” Pierre said, sitting up straighter.

Then it was just the two of them. Friedrich said, “Eep.”

“Is that a tic noise, or is it an informal expression of how you feel?”

“Yes. Eep.”

“Please sit. It’s like you’re looming.”

Friedrich sat on a chair that was perpendicular to Pierre’s. No need to look directly at each other. “I would never hurt you. Non-consensually, I mean.”

“Oh, I know. At least not intentionally. That’s not the issue.” Pierre’s heart pounded, and he felt an invisible hand rise from inside his stomach to squeeze his throat. He exchanged his glass for the Aftercare Bear. At least he’d had a lot of “spare” time to think of what to say. “There are three main issues here. First, you not telling me what the ‘special ops’ really was and therefore contributing to me unknowingly being in danger. Everyone else would have put themselves in immediate danger if they’d told me, and I can excuse that, especially Chev, who was planning to and had made efforts to get permission. Then there’s fact that you beat a man to death. And then how much of your past has affected our sex life. The last might seem trivial, but if I can’t sort that one out, I’m never going to be able to..to...Like, we roleplayed. How much of that was nostalgia?”

“None!” The extent to which Friedrich sounded shocked and wounded by that went a long way towards making Pierre believe him. “I have never, eep, done anything we have consensually done together to anyone without their consent. I did restrain people, but in a strictly utilitarian manner, and often as an alternative to killing them. It takes more time to knock out and tie up the guards than just stab them in the dark, but it’s more contained, and you sleep better at night when you spare who you can. Eep. You can ask Chev to show you data on my former syndicate if you like. See our code of conduct.”

“They showed me.” Pierre had thoughts about how, though both had strict sanctions against rape, Ching Shih’s gang came down unusually hard on those who exploited women in general, while “Frederick the Great” would annihilate any employee who made loved ones watch anyone being punished or executed.

“And you still thought I might?”

“You left in disgrace, Gummy Bear, how should I know how much of that code you followed?” Pierre hadn’t called Friedrich that since the first six months or so of their relationship. It slipped out in one of the most anguished ways possible. “Though I guess if Benjy thought you’d done something like that, he wouldn’t have stayed around, and he would have warned us.”

“How do you know I left in disgrace?”

“Nuh uh, not yet. _My_ secrets aren’t dangerous to _you_. Why did you beat a man to death?”

Friedrich stared at the floor for a long time. Then he said, “There was a student. Eep. Like you, in some ways. Beautiful. We weren’t in love, but there was fondness, and he was under my protection by default. Then he was in the hospital, and asked for me, claimed I was his cousin. Have you heard of a Glasgow grin? Like Heath Ledger’s joker? And his nostrils slit and his...I’ll stop describing. It was done slowly. He’d been tied down. I paid for his emergency care and following reconstructive surgery, and I learned who’d done it. Went and found the culprit. He was one of us, though. Far lower down in the ranks. Jealous of my closeness with Fritz, and I’d been the one to discipline him for rule-breaking a few months earlier. I got caught. Fritz was sympathetic of my reason - as well as being my non-exclusive lover, that surely helped - so he told me to go away, and gave me resources to do so safely and comfortably. Usually lethal infighting like that would mean execution.”

All Pierre could say was, “Oh.”

“If I had gone through the proper channels, reported him for gratuitously attacking what we called a civilian, he’d have been severely punished. I was too angry to wait.” Friedrich was still looking at the floor. “On the other hand, it sent me here. I’ve benefited, eep, a lot from that.”

“Chev said it looked like you were about to do the same thing to Shoni, until they called you over to help me. That’s his name, by the way. Chev wants you to help them interrogate. They say you know how to do it without torture, too. They said they’d respect how comfortable I am with you being involved in my affairs.”

Still at the floor. “Never sorry for killing that man. Only sorry for what it did to Fritz. Wouldn’t have been sorry for killing someone who did all that to you. Would have been sorry for not asking you first. I swear to you, I have never killed someone not part of this business, and that was the one time I deliberately made it hurt. I won’t chase you if you walk away. I can’t promise not to be heartbroken.”

Pierre, without letting go of the Aftercare Bear, went to perch on the arm of the chair Friedrich was sitting on. Friedrich looked up, and there were tears in his eyes.

Having told the story once already, it was easier to tell it again in person, and no matter what muddle of feelings Pierre had, Friedrich had shared something immensely painful. Pierre no longer felt like parceling out scraps.

So Pierre began, “Don’t blame those two for the state of my shoulders and wrists. The Neuralizine’s had an unusual side effect…”

***

Chev returned to the apartment and found Pierre watching cat videos on Youtube while doing the easiest of his homework, and also eating raw cookie dough straight out of a tube. 

“Did you break up?” Chev asked gently, putting a hand on Pierre’s shoulder.

“No. Didn’t totally make up, either. You can work with him to settle this and help Lafayette. I asked him to give me another week to process. Don’t tell him we’re eloping.” Pierre pronounced the word like it was from a new language.

“It’s hardly an elopement if everyone knows, mon cher. Want a side dish to your cookie dough?”

“Can we get a pizza?” Since moving in together, the two of them had always called to order a pizza but picked it up themselves, to avoid giving out their address. 

“Sure.”

Over dinner, Pierre said he was considering telling the researchers about his superpower and sophisticated hallucinations. If so, he needed help coming up with a suitable censored version of the context. Chev pledged their help, but suggested that it wasn’t the best night for it, not with Pierre so upset.

Pierre cried in his sleep again that night. Chev tried not to read too much into it. It helped Chev with their next big decision, though.

***

TWO DAYS LATER

“Thanks for squeezing in this appointment,” Chev told James Barry as they settled into the chair. “I want to surprise Pierre. He’s the only person who sees my chest, not counting doctors and you.”

“Just this once, unless you need touch-ups,” Barry said, grinning. He held out the stencil. “This is exactly what you want, right? Exactly?”

“Exactly.” Pierre had come up with a bunch of ideas for Chev’s hypothetical chest tattoo, but as Chev waited for Pierre to wake from minor surgery, they’d come up with a different one. 

“It’s pretty. You’re going to have to take your shirt off now. Nobody’s going to come in.”

“Oh, right.” It was easier to do this with an artist who had also experienced dysphoria and needed top surgery, though more drastic than Chev’s. Still, they needed to take some deep breaths, and shivered a little in the seat.

“You can drape your shirt over parts I won’t be working with, if you need to.”

“Right. Yes.” From last time, Chev knew they could handle the pain, and a soft fleshy area like the inner curve of their left breast would hurt less than their bony right wrist. The anticipation was tough, though, while Barry readied the equipment. To distract themself, they said, “I copied the design from a botanical guide.”

“Nice.” Barry didn’t mind people talking, but was often terse in answers when he needed to focus especially hard.

“Purple is used in both my preferred nonbinary pride flag and the intersex pride flag, by the way.” Barry knew Chev was intersex. Chev had talked about it in the support group where they met. He’d allied with them in verbally destroying a few members of the group who said Chev was “privileged” for having something physically different about them that provided evidence that they weren’t just “making a choice”. Because a slender silver lining that came with its own massive clouds was apparently a reason to trivialize Chev’s problems.

Barry paused and gave a thumbs-up. “Niiiiice.”

Names were dangerous for tattoos, and wedding rings - and their tan lines - were dangerous for spies. Puns made everything better. Puns with parallels, even better.

“These plants have been used in groundbreaking experiments, and their seeds look like a similar edible kind but totally aren’t - all innocent and tasty looking, but they will poison you if you try eating them. Really badass but super cute. It’s a sweet pea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Botanical illustration by Lizzie Harper
> 
> (PS, I took some inspiration from du Ponceau's description of von Steuben becoming tearful when du Ponceau had to leave his side and try to recover from severe illness.)


	42. try to find a snag

“Ciao!”

“Hello, Pierre. It’s good to hear you. I appreciated your timely text, of course, but hearing is comforting.”

“Thank you. I wanted to say aloud that I’m massively grateful for you following your instincts and alerting Chev so soon. I probably should have followed your advice and waited for you. We learned important information that’s going to help another bad situation, though. At least.”

“I’m glad for good having come out of it. How have you been?”

“Francesco, sorry to go in a different direction, but you’ve taught courses on research ethics, right?”

“I’ve also written papers on it. Why?”

“I need a favor. Sorry to impose, but..”

“Anything.”

“I need a ride to DC, ideally Friday, and to have someone with me who is capable of throwing the book at the Neuralizine people if they react badly to a big thing I am going to tell them.”

***

On the way there, as Pierre told the full story, Francesco sighed. “Sweetheart. If you’re clearly getting medical benefit from this study, which you are, it’s against all ethical standards for them to cut you off from it.”

Pierre felt simultaneously relieved and stupid, and said so.

“Don’t put yourself down. It’s understandable with how frightened you were. Besides, just because scientists are not supposed to do something, it isn’t a guarantee that they won’t. I’m very glad to help. Not only because I like you, not only because it is the right thing for me to do, but the idea of supporting a person experiencing what might be a unique neurological phenomenon as a side effect of testing a new medical treatment is _exciting_.” Francesco observed a bunch of signs by the side of the highway. “We’re ahead of time. Would you like to stop for a brief lunch?”

Pierre suspected that Francesco might not have eaten since selflessly leaving Williamsburg at dawn, and agreed, even though he didn’t have much appetite. He discussed with Francesco his idea for proving his claims, and Francesco helped him work out the fine details.

***

It was good that Pierre had consulted with Francesco, because Dr. Chovet’s calm, warm expression was growing more and more rehearsed. His assistant Anna, less experienced, had eyebrows raised into the stratosphere. Pierre reminded himself that Francesco was close by and summon-able.

Pierre left out the abduction part. He just said that he’d been able to manage the feat with a completely unrelated language only once so far, and that it had taken much more effort. He didn’t say why he’d been sleep-deprived enough to see and hear his Triple Goddess. Chev had advised lying as little as possible, and said deft lies of omission were the easiest of all deceptions to maintain.

“The reading one is easy to demonstrate,” Pierre said, keeping the pleading edge out of his voice. He was finally overcoming his anxiety and doing his part for science (and maybe himself, long-term), but he understood their point of view. For all they knew, the Neuralizine could be making him delusional. It was no insult against him, no more than him getting a rash or digestive troubles would be, and was far more probable. “Choose a random passage of text, in English, French, Vietnamese, or German. It needs to be at least a hundred, varied words.”

That sounded worrisomely like a magic trick, but Dr. Chovet was thorough and fair. He assigned the task to Anna, and interviewed Pierre about his general well-being while she found something.

Then Anna returned with two printouts. One for Dr. Chovet, with the original next included, and one for Pierre, without. “Maybe let’s start with a different alphabet? Quicker to whip up. We can move onto spy-style ciphers later.”

Pierre studied it for what he was told had been twelve minutes. “Shall I read it aloud?” he asked.

Dr. Chovet had an excellent gentle poker face. “Certainly.”

He read:

_And the whole earth was of one language and of one speech. And it came to pass as they journeyed from the east that they found a plain in the land of shinar and they dwelt there. And they said one to another go to let us make brick, and burn them thoroughly. And they had brick for stone, and slime had they for morter. And they said go to let us build us a city and a tower whose top may reach unto heaven and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth. And the lord came down to see the city and the tower, which the children of men builded. And the lord said behold the people is one and they have all one language and this they begin to do and now nothing will be restrained from them which they have imagined to do. Genesis eleven._

Anna burst into a mixed-feelings giggle. “Sorry if that was heavy-handed. I panicked.”

“What did you use?” Pierre asked.

“It’s the fan-made version of Circular Gallifreyan, made by Loren Sherman, not endorsed by the show. I remember chatting with you during one of your sessions where you said you’ve seen the first two seasons of Torchwood, but not any Doctor Who, so I thought it was fairly certain that you’d never studied it. It’s hard because it’s, you know, circular, so it seemed like a great litmus test. I had to leave out punctuation that Sherman didn't provide. You okay with what I did, Dr. Chovet?”

“Given the time constraints and suddenness of the request I’d say you did well.” Dr. Chovet peered at his version. “Did you handwrite this and then photocopy it?”

“I might have run a panel on conlangs, both official and fanon, during last year’s AwesomeCon,” Anna mumbled.

Dr. Chovet nodded in a way that made Pierre suspect he wasn’t sure what she meant but didn’t want to ask. He turned to Pierre. “Well. That’s an impressive first trial. Let’s do one more for now. ”

The second time, Anna used Theban, a script associated with Wicca. She didn’t tell him until after. Pierre studied it for twenty-two minutes before he read out the conversation between Heidi, as in the classic children’s literature heroine, and her grandfather. In German. Swiss German. Then, upon request, he translated it into English. The researchers compared it with their written translation.

“I am begging you to share more of your story, grandpa,” Anna said with a crooked smile.

There wasn’t enough time to verify Pierre’s spoken-language claim, not before the lab closed. Francesco would likely sleep over at Pierre and Chev’s place before resuming the drive to Williamsburg in the morning, as it was. So they discussed another day for Pierre to marathon a few unsubtitled movies in a language he didn’t speak, but related to one of the ones he did. Then he’d sleep for a few hours in a nearby hotel room, then take listening comprehension tests. 

“The confidentiality statement we provided you at the beginning of the Neuralizine trial still holds true,” Dr. Chovet said.

“I was worried that if you didn’t take me off the Neuralizine, you’d instead get dollar signs in your eyes,” Pierre said, tucking his hoodie closer around himself. It proudly proclaimed that his college was undefeated in football. It didn’t mention that they didn’t have a team. “Get all this fame and fortune out of having a superpowered test subject.”

“You’re not a subject. You’re a participant. In fact…”

“What?”

“You’re a senior, right?”

“Yes, but I’m going to have to either do an extra semester next fall or take classes this summer to make up for withdrawing one semester of my sophomore year.”

Dr. Chovet chewed on his pen briefly, in thought. Anna had gotten back to taking notes, and took a moment to massage her right hand. “Mr. Etienne. I want to see what happens next time before committing us, but it’s obvious already that this is a remarkable result. It’s not exactly within my purview. You are welcome to continue to help us understand the benefits and dangers of Neuralizine, but this ability you’ve developed is likely from you being a gifted student of the field of linguistics. Your field of study and your extremely high verbal intelligence separate you from the rest of our participants. Therefore, I believe that, with your permission, I could get some highly distinguished psycholinguists interested in working with you. Some of them are affiliated with graduate-level education, some are not. They wouldn’t be interested in you as a participant. More like as an assistant. Maybe a protege.”

“Come to the dork side, we have spreadsheets,” Anna stage-whispered. Pierre had come to like her a lot as the months had gone by and she’d loosened up, and the events of today made him wonder if she’d be allowed to hang out with him. Probably not while he was still part of the Neuralizine trial.

Dr. Chovet said, “Really, thank you for overcoming your anxieties and telling us. We highly recommend you not hold back again. Your hallucinations seem benign, though we should keep an eye on them, but we’ve had a tiny handful of cases in which sudden symptoms were not benign and needed to be dealt with right away. Look out for that rash.”

Certain, back-of-the-mind fears were like an aquatic monster lurking under ice. Now the ice had been broken, and the monster had turned and swum away. Pierre hugged himself. “I remember. Thank you. I do feel better about telling you everything that’s going on.”

***

“They told us everything we wanted to know, so we’ve kept our side of the deal and are handing them over to real law enforcement. We didn’t tell them that Friedrich’s retired and that I'm a minimal-violence person.” Chev handed over a flash drive. “A handy pile of digital evidence on their other crimes on U.S. soil, an edited version Pierre’s description of events, just the kidnapping, names censored. Plus pictures Reinette took of the scene after we got him out. He’s going to be an anonymous informant, right?” 

“Of course,” Agent James Armistead said, putting it in the pocket of his crisp white shirt. They were in a sleazy motel room that you paid for by the hour. Chev was dressed not only femme, but like the sort of young woman our culture imagines a man in a suit cheating on his wife with in the middle of the day. It had been a challenge emphasizing their cleavage while also hiding the bandaging on their new tattoo. They were going to show Pierre when it healed. More romantic. 

They’d also Bedazzled their thrift shop ankle boots for that extra slutshamebait bling. Marie had lent them the machine, and Chev had gone to town on key wardrobe items. They were wearing the shade of lipstick that their mother, an experienced Avon cosmetics seller, told them not to wear if they wanted to pass as anything other than "Daddy's little sorority girl on spring break in Miami, not with your skin tone and cheekbones." Frankie Beaumont was most eloquent when discussing makeup.

“Here’s the GPS coordinates where I left them for you,” Chev continued, sliding over the slip of paper. Friedrich had helped with arrangements, but Chev was the only one sufficiently at ease talking to Armistead. “They’re in an empty storage pod in a patch of woods. Well-ventilated. They’re warmly dressed. You will say we passed them along immediately after making a citizen’s arrest, right? Like is perfectly legal?”

“Definitely. And you didn’t torture them.”

“You don’t have to lie about that. We really didn’t. But we knew more than they thought we could possibly know, and that scared the hell out of them.” The evidence on their past activities was courtesy of Ada, which simplified the process. She was happy to help Chev resolve the problem fairly ethically. 

Armistead inclined his head. “I can spin it our way without much trouble. A pair of foreigners - under the direction of a politician the CIA already doesn’t like - abducted and seriously harmed a completely innocent American citizen who simply happened to know a few of their targets, but didn’t know the context.”

“Feel free to take whatever credit they’ll believe.” 

“I'm looking forward to contributing to Lafayette's life getting easier, too.” He shook Chev’s hand.


	43. stand under your branches

Chev arrived home after their meeting with Armistead to find Pierre on the couch being cuddled and kissed by Francesco.

“Fritz okay with this?” Chev asked casually, removing their coat and hanging it up.

“Confirmed by phone. If it goes no further than this.” Pierre tried to sit up more, and winced from his still-healing rib. “I had an anxiety attack, he comforted me, and it escalated, I guess.”

“Would you like us to stop?” Francesco asked

“Keep going if you want, for now, though I’ll want help with dinner.”

“I want us to talk with Chev, maybe resume later,” Pierre said.

Francesco pressed a last kiss to Pierre’s forehead, disentangled himself, and retrieved both pairs of glasses from the coffee table. He put Pierre’s on for him, then his own.

Chev smiled at them. “I’m going to change into something less stripperiffic. And wash off this makeup. Then we can swap stories.”

***

“A toast to evil Welshmen being behind bars,” Pierre said. Chev noticed his wine glass shake a little in his hand.

“A toast to superpowers being treated as they should,” Chev replied brightly. This wasn’t the time to fuss.

“And a toast to the good dinner you two put together,” Francesco finished. 

“Pff. You improved it.” Pierre clinked, though, and drank.

***

Chev made sure Francesco had everything he needed for the night before they went to bed, and thanked him multiple times for helping Pierre out.

They went to the bedroom and found Pierre propped up with pillows to help him breathe comfortably. If he didn’t laugh too hard or exert himself too much, Pierre was pretty much fine when upright. It was lying down, and getting up from lying down, that remained tricky. He was on his side, writing in his diary. In slightly modified French written with Korean letters. “You mentioned that there are therapists Mr. 15 doesn’t mind you talking to. And wouldn’t mind me telling about your business.”

“Yes. One of them is Angelica Schuyler, by the way. She can be persuaded to do Skype sessions.” Chev brushed their hair. They needed to get it cut soon, to fit into their carefully-maintained versatility of presentation.

“Huh. Small world. That might be nice. I got triggered pretty badly. I saw the same model of car as Dodgson’s in our parking lot. Different license plate, though. Francesco went back downstairs and checked. I know he was being manipulated and that he’s sorry, and he helped you find me, and I’m fine with not pressing charges in order to keep you and Reinette from suspicion, but…”

“I know.” Chev put the brush down and climbed into bed. They were wearing an old t-shirt that said in tiny letters roughly over their liver: “If you can read this, you’re way too persistent, and likely creepy.” Their drawstring pants were rainbow tie-dye. 

Pierre gingerly picked at a loose thread from the white trim of his navy blue pajamas. The wrist braces could probably come off just before Vegas, but only if he was careful. “Couldn’t breathe. Shaking.”

“I know.” Chev lay down and looked up at their fiance. They remembered when “boyfriend” had felt equally novel and strange. They’d barely gotten used to “primary.” Hell, three years ago Chev had marveled as much to think of Pierre as a real, one-on-one friend, like Reinette and Barry, as opposed to a friendly member of an amiable clump of people, like all the fencers. 

“What a terrible way to bring us closer,” Pierre said with grim humor. He put down the notebook and turned off the lamp. 

Chev wanted to nestle close to him, but didn’t want to push. “Next time, let’s go to a team-building retreat in the woods and do trust falls and walk on coals and stuff.”

Pierre laughed softly. “We need to plan our real trip more thoroughly. Can we go see Cirque du Soleil?”

“Definitely. The wedding chapel I found that’ll respect my gender, even if the marriage license won’t, they do a bunch of themes as well as basic. Including a Cirque du Soleil one.”

“Might be a bit distracting. I want to focus on just one sexy person. And I don’t mean an Elvis impersonator.” Pierre found Chev’s hand under the covers and interlaced their fingers. “I don’t want to gamble. My dad has a gambling problem. Functional addiction, because he’s always had a good salary except when I was fifteen and he had to take seven months off for chemo, and my mom’s worked since I was old enough for school, but it’s always been a source of tension.”

“No need for you to. I’m going to have to chill around the card tables a bit to observe Marie Antoinette Habsburg in her natural environment…” Chev felt Pierre’s fingers tighten. They improvised. “In case I go mad with hubris, I’m going to withdraw a specific amount of cash first, and that’s all I’ll bet. You hang onto my wallet for me.”

“Won’t she be there for a tournament? How will you get in?”

Chev smirked in the darkness purely for their own benefit. “I told Alexander that you and I are having a mini vacation in Vegas because I got a good deal, and also that we want to avoid the hell out of the greater DC area on the anniversary of my kidnapping, and that I learned about his amicable ex-online-girlfriend competing in a nearby casino. He told me many useful things, which I will tell you in greater detail when I’m not so tired. One was that just before a tournament, she plays with amateurs as a warm-up in the closest venue to the professional game. I talked to Reinette about it, since she’s played with me and is very good. She thinks I can lose respectably against Ms. Habsburg.”

There was a risky side to this plan that Chev wasn’t ready to tell Pierre yet. They would, though. They were allowed to now. They smiled a secret, grateful smile, and said no more til morning.

***

Chev was not required to maintain a regular schedule as a full-time agent, albeit one still in training for various important qualifications. They liked the rhythm of having a default schedule, though, even if they no longer had to give Pierre the impression that they worked a 9-5 office job. And so it was that on Monday morning after Francesco’s visit, Chev was practicing surviving and escaping a fight with someone who had a knife while they were unarmed. 

They were in Shaka’s DIY sparring ring in the former barn on Shaka’s property just out of town. How he had come to own the place was something only he and Mr. 15 knew. Back in South Africa his gang had taken over both urban neighborhoods and rural villages, through means Chev did not exactly approve of. He’d put in flooring and mats, installed wardrobes and chests to keep weapons of varying genuineness inside, and made sure it was always well-stocked with first aid supplies. Chev knew Shaka taught other people too, among his other pursuits, and with equal secrecy.

Shaka was wielding a plastic knife. The edge was coated in wet paint, to show where he got a touch in. Extra credit if Chev could take it away from him, but the point was to successfully escape to the far wall without getting “stabbed” somewhere vital or getting their throat “slit”. Each round was with a different color. Chev was dressed in clothes they didn’t mind getting stained if the paint wasn’t as washable as advertised.

After putting up a good fight but still “dying” several times, Chev made an attempt at grabbing the knife that went very wrong. Shaka suddenly had them flat on their back, crouching over them, knife at their neck. “How is this worse than the other times?”

“You’re in a position where you could easily draw it out.”

“Correct.” Shaka mimed a few of the options without touching down. “How is it better?”

“Uh…”

“Your pupils have dilated. You have more adrenaline now. Use it. Fear’s just the inward form of anger. You’re shaking. It doesn’t have to be bad. Whatever you’re thinking of, it doesn’t have to eat you, you can eat it, don’t wallow in whatever it was when you feel weak, be angry anyone ever made you feel that way...Charlie.”

_That. Is. Not. My. Name._

A red-misted moment later, Chev realized that their positions were reversed, except the paint showed that they would have stabbed Shaka in the shoulder. 

“Right, and if you didn’t want me to bleed out, you’d need to...” There was a slight wince in Shaka’s face and words.

Chev tried to remember what happened. “Did I knee you in the crotch?” 

“Yes. Get up and let me recover.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m teaching you how to fight dirty. It’s an excellent tactic. Next time see if you can pretend, perhaps, though I acknowledge that's what I get for playing with your brain.” He lay back on the mat in a more comfortable position. “Congratulations on the engagement, by the way.”

“How’d you know?” They’d only told Ada, for help with semi-legally getting plane tickets and a hotel room at short notice. Pierre hadn’t told anyone. 

“I have tricks not only up my sleeve but under my entire shirt. If you want me to teach him any self-defense, though, I’ll give him a discount. It’s dangerous, loving any of us.”

***

Friedrich finally walked through the door of the coffee shop. It had taken a lot out of Pierre to ride his bicycle to the place alone, but he needed to be able to, and anyway it was harder to grab someone on a bike than someone on foot.

Pierre waved at him. Friedrich looked as nervous as he felt when he approached and sat at the little table. Pierre’s current tic made him nibble at the edge of his cup. They gave customers real cups and mugs here. When he was done for now, he said, “I’ve determined that I don’t feel enough trust and security in your presence to go back to a physical relationship. Not at present. On the other hand, if I think about ending everything, it hurts more than all the fear does. So I want to try abstinent dating. For a bit. Ease back into togetherness, but building it up from the ground. We skipped this phase the first time around. I want to try it. Do you?”

Friedrich nodded. He looked tearful again. Pierre marveled at that, throat dry but buoyed with hope. He waited for Friedrich to say something. Friedrich didn't seem to be able to. 

“There's a barista who makes pretty shapes on lattes here,” Pierre offered. 

“Thank you.” He clearly didn't mean the latte information.


	44. there is more to the scheme

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief sexual harassment and transphobia/fetishization.

In order for Pierre to miss as little class as possible, the two of them had to take a flight that barely gave them time to pick up the rental car and check into their modest but comfortable hotel room before seeking out Antoinette. Chev was presenting as female in order to appear nonthreatening. 

“You promise that her relationship to her family’s crime ring is like Francesco’s to his.” Pierre was no longer wearing the wrist braces, but his movements were careful as he buttoned his shirt. The thumbprint pendant would soon be hidden, but Chev enjoyed the glimpse of it. 

They turned back to the mirror to focus on their eye makeup. “I researched thoroughly. Her mother is not fond of Mr. 15, to the point where he uses ‘Mrs. Habsburg’ as a very negative code phrase. Antoinette, on the other hand, may or may not have romantic feelings for Mr. 16, but according to my sources they seem to enjoy each other’s company.

The presence of Pierre would spoil the plan, but Pierre was understandably not ready to be in an unfamiliar place alone. So they went to the casino together, and Chev left Pierre by a pai gow table where he could demurely sip a mocktail and work on learning Cantonese from a group of tourists from Hong Kong. 

Chev headed for the main poker tables, following a huddle of gawkers, and found Antoinette playing Texas Hold ‘Em, a massive stack of chips in front of her. Chev yawned and reapplied their lipstick - girly girl, airhead - and watched. Antoinette was quiet, speaking only when necessary. She was playing with three men, two of them wearing sunglasses, one wearing prescription glasses. That one was clearly losing. Soon he grimaced and said, “I’m out. Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Habsburg.”

“Thank you, it was fun.” She had a slight Austrian accent, as she’d been born and raised there, but time elsewhere had smoothed it out. She glanced at her watch. “I have time. Are you gentlemen still in the game? Would anyone like to join?”

Chev raised their hand. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. What’s your name?”

“Viv.” Let everyone think it was short for Vivian. 

Soon they weren’t winning, but doing a decent job keeping up. Chev had only ever played casually, after all. Reinette and Marie said they were great at bluffing. They were only at a slight loss when Antoinette looked at her watch again. “Thank you for helping me warm up. I need to be on my way…”

Chev quickly gathered up their chips and caught up to her on the way to cash in. “Would you be interested in meeting up after your tournament?”

Antoinette smiled politely. “I’m afraid I’ll likely be there very long and be very tired, Viv.”

“I understand. Only…” Chev took an envelope out of their purse, removed the card inside, and held them out to Antoinette. “...I think you might want to discuss the details in private.”

Antoinette took and read it, expertly not dropping all her chips. Her mouth opened slightly. Chev knew what it said, because when they’d gone to visit Alexander a few days ago he’d given them one addressed to Chev, and also one addressed to Pierre. (“We’re giving you a separate invitation rather than implying you’re a plus-one, because we want to give Pierre the option of bringing Friedrich or someone else.”)

She read aloud, “Ms. Marie Antoinette Habsburg, you are cordially invited to the wedding of Alexander Hamilton and Eliza Schuyler…”

“Would you like to have a chat after your game? I hope I didn’t throw you off.”

“Pff. I won a high-stakes game that began five minutes after my dog died. Cards are soothing.” She smiled. “And yes, I would.”

They both cashed in, then exchanged phone numbers. Chev then went to get Pierre.

“Want to go to a buffet and then watch some acrobats?”

Pierre stood up and grinned. He tapped his left foot. _“Mhgoi!”_

“What’s that mean?”

“I think it can be used for both ‘please’ and a specific kind of ‘thank you’. My conscious mind’s only picked up a few bits and pieces so far.”

“Neat. How about you pay for dinner, since we’ve already bought the tickets. I’m down over a hundred dollars.”

“Lafayette will probably pay you back if you ask,” Pierre pointed out, putting an arm around their waist. His left foot kept tapping. Physical tic. The two of them started for the exit. “But yes, I will pay for dinner, because the researchers are going to pay me extra for taking detailed notes and later being tested on my Cantonese-comprehension experiment...”

***

After a big meal and then being delighted by the show, Pierre felt relaxed and secure enough to stay in the hotel room alone, with the doors and windows locked and having a Skype chat with John Laurens. It wasn’t going to be one-sided reassurance. Apparently John and Missy had invited one of their recently-reconciled brothers to join them for Thanksgiving, and therefore John had nerves that needed soothing. Pierre said that John’s boyfriend, whom Chev had not met yet, was mostly a calming influence, but Ned was so calm almost all the time that John wanted a second opinion from a fellow psych ward veteran. 

Chev could spare time to relax Pierre further. It worked well.

“If something happens to me while I’m talking to John, he’ll tell you,” Pierre said confidently, changing into a t-shirt and sweats rather than bother putting smart casual clothes back on. Chev kissed him goodbye with a small ache in their heart. 

They bought an Almond Joy candy bar from a vending machine in the hallway, and ate it like a badass as they walked out. To remind themself that aftereffects were not a life sentence.

Antoinette knew that she would be tired after the tournament, so she’d asked Chev to meet her at the bar of her own hotel. It was of course open at this hour, because Las Vegas. Chev went early to scope out the place. They checked updates on the tournament on their phone to get an idea of whether she’d run late or not.

“Moscow mule mocktail, please,” Chev ordered.

The bartender cocked her head. “Maybe if you tell me what that is?” She didn’t look much older than Chev. It was a sedate, small crowd here at close to midnight, though, so it was probably safe enough. Upscale hotel bar, not a bar bar. Maybe her prettiness was meant to be a draw, too. Use what you’ve got, sister. 

“It’s a dressed-up name for ginger beer with club soda and lime juice,” Chev said with a self-deprecating grin. “Good for designated drivers with unsettled stomachs. If you don’t have ginger beer, I’ll take ginger ale. Not a prima donna drinker.”

She smiled back. “Good to know. Normally I don’t do unfamiliar stuff, but we’re going through a lull and I have time. If you’re not a prima donna I’ll give it a try. I’ll charge you the standard rates for the individual components, k? What are the proportions?”

“I honestly don’t know. Had the alcoholic version at a friend’s party. Use your mixology judgment. Tip either way, promise.” Casey Nova had given Chev the tip to always make nice with the bartender. Bartenders see and hear things. Chev was ignoring the other advice, though, which was all about how to get one to invite you to their place after. 

While the bartender was busy, Chev sized up the corners of the room, the emergency exit, then the patrons. They looked at a particular businessman for longer, wondering if he was carrying a concealed firearm. That suit was bulkier than needed.

The businessman noticed Chev’s gaze and drew the wrong conclusion. He moved to sit next to them. “Hey there.” He spoke with the exaggerated enunciation of the mild-to-moderately drunk. 

“Hi. Sorry for staring, I know that’s rude, it’s just that you kind of look like someone I knew once. I won’t do it anymore.” Chev veered away, clear body language, and watched the bartender locate a fresh lime for them. How nice of her. She was having more trouble with the ginger ale. 

He leaned closer. “What’cha getting, sweetheart? It’s on me.”

Chev was in a public place with at least one sympathetic witness, and wasn’t in the mood to coddle anyone’s ego unless it furthered their mission. “Your disrespect of my personal space and clear disinterest is making me uncomfortable.”

“No need to be so rude, you should be grateful for the attention.”

Chev had a knife tucked into in their bra. It was a tiny folding one of ceramic and wood that Shaka was having them beta-test, see if they could get it through airport security - which they had. It was so sharp that Chev had cut themself multiple times while learning how to use it. Chev’s tone was sharper. “The only way my drink will be on you is if I throw it at you.”

The man said knowingly. “Your voice is a bit deep for a girl.”

Ugh, Chev forgot their voice dipped a bit after deep-throating, and they’d forgotten that in any city with a large number of ‘working girls’ that some of the women were likely not cis, and that prospective clients with fetishes might be particularly...analytical. They should have thought ahead and used hands on Pierre instead. Pierre would have been just as happy. 

“I’m sure the Alto II section of any choir ever would beg to differ.” They spared a smile for the bartender when she brought their drink.

The bartender may or may not have heard the interaction, but she looked at them both and asked the man, “Are you bothering this person?”

The man rolled his eyes. “Christ almighty. Just trying to be nice to a tranny. Can’t you tell? Look.” And he put a hand on one of Chev’s breasts.

Chev smacked the hand away, then grabbed the man by the necktie, and jerked him in, while simultaneously kicking away the bar stool so that he was tilting at a precarious angle. The man gurgled. Chev let their voice drop low in both octave and volume, dangerous. “I am myself. And that’s not something you get to call anyone. You’re lucky that I have other things to be doing momentarily, but touch me again and you lose a finger.”

Chev heard Antoinette’s voice behind them. “Um, Viv, maybe we should talk in private.”

It occurred to Chev that this had not been the most discreet way to behave, but their ability to really care about that hadn’t arrived yet. They let the man go, ignoring all his insignificant noises. “Sounds good. Gimme a sec to pay.” Chev put two ten dollar bills next to their still-full glass.

The bartender pushed a button behind the counter, presumably for security. “You don’t need to bribe me. As far as I’m concerned, that was self-defense.”

“It’s thanks, not a bribe.” Chev drank as much of their drink as they could in one go, and did not spare a glance for the guy who was burbling something about lawyers. They adjusted their purse strap and followed Antoinette to the elevators.

In the elevator, Antoinette said with calm wariness, “I doubt you’re a regular person. Who sent you?”

“Nobody.”

“I texted Alexander. We haven’t talked in a long time, but I trust him, and I know how much it means to be invited to the wedding. He wasn’t with Eliza yet, back then, but he talked about her. And he says you really are his friend.” Chev had taken the precaution of telling Alexander that Chev might choose to present as a binary gender at some point during the trip, and what names they’d use if they did. Antoinette shuffled around in her handbag and retrieved her key card. “That’s the only reason I’m willing to be alone with you after that display.”

“Don’t harass me and we’re cool,” Chev said. They reached their hand into their purse readied Charles’ prototype for an even smaller and very basic bug-detector. It would vibrate if it found any. Terrible battery life, though.

***

Antoinette wanted to change into something more comfortable and get her makeup off first. Chev was fine with that. They checked in with Pierre while waiting. Pierre was now talking to his Vietnamese grandparents, who had finally learned how to use video chat programs. “Congratulations on winning third place, by the way,” they said when Antoinette emerged.

“It’s okay. I win first more often in Europe, for some reason.” She took the other chair. “So. This isn’t just about passing along an invitation and a bit of a chat.”

Chev took a sip of the tiny water bottle they’d brought with them. “I admit it. It is tangentially related to Alexander and friends, though. Did he ever tell you about his dear friend Lafayette?”

“Yes, he did. I wish I could meet him someday, despite the cooling between me and our mutual friend. He sounds like a man worth knowing.” Antoinette looked more tired that she had downstairs. Maybe she’d run out of adrenalin. 

“He is. Did Alexander let anything slip about me?”

“He referred to you as ‘she’ most of the time, but twice as ‘they’.”

“I’m actually non-binary, but I felt like being more feminine today, so I gave you a name to match. I didn’t want to out myself until I felt more familiar with you. I normally go by Chev.” Show of trust, creating trust.

“I see.”

“Lafayette supported me not having to declare a gender for the purpose of a fencing tournament,” Chev said. “My university against his, at the time. That’s the kind of man he is.”

Antoinette nodded. “Why did you bring him up?”

“Because Mr. 16, aka Louis Bourbon, who I believe you know very well, has been blackmailing and exploiting him for more than two years, and I want your help stopping him.”

Her eyes widened for a second, and then she sighed. “He’s good to me, but I don’t get any say in what he does as leader of the French Numbers.”

“Could you try? Just tell him Lafayette’s a friend of a friend, to do it for you as a favor?”

“First of all, if you think I could seduce him into it, our relationship isn’t sexual. It’s one of the reasons I agreed to it.”

Interesting. Chev felt better about it now. While they supported people using their bodies however they damn well pleased without infringing on others, they didn’t like when other people made them feel like they had to. “What do you get in exchange? You inherited money and you have a lucrative career.”

“Who do you work for?”

“I’m not here on someone’s behalf -”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Chev decided that she was part of their world, so to speak, and unlikely to use it against them, no harm in her knowing. “I’m kind of freelancer, but I answer to a certain extent to Mr. 15. He was manipulating Lafayette, too, and I got him to stop. I want to finish the job. Lafayette and his loved ones are important to me.”

“What I get in exchange is peace between the Habsburgs and the French Numbers,” Antoinette said quietly. “I don’t affiliate myself with the activities of my family, but given the chance to protect them, and the chance to reduce violence between the syndicates and harm to bystanders...wouldn’t you? He doesn’t curtail my activities when I’m away, as long as I spend enough time at his mansion in the countryside. Other than not pursuing other romantic relationships, I mean.”

“I admire that.”

“Thank you. Many of his underlings dislike me. A lot. I was worried that you might have been sent by them. I don’t want Louis sending bodyguards with me. I don’t want that to be necessary. I want to have my own life. I also don’t want to...the expression is ‘rock the boat’, right?”

“Right.” Chev suppressed a yawn. It had been a long day. “Antoinette, the leverage Mr. 16 has involves Lafayette’s family. Lafayette’s father died in service of the French Numbers. All the man wants is his own, peaceful life, but because of his family history and of having to appease the French Numbers, he’s been forced into doing favors he never expected to keep loved ones safe.”

Antoinette was starting to look teary. “I understand.”

Chev nodded, and looked her in the eye. “Please try. That’s all I’m asking.”

“I...I will.” She looked at her watch. “I know it’s late, but I wouldn’t mind if you stayed and talked for longer.”

“I would, but I have a very important appointment tomorrow.” As in, marriage license, marriage chapel, and finally showing Pierre the new tattoo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took seven years of marriage before Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette consummated it. Among the factors were that they were strangers when wed, M.A. was only 14 at the time of marriage and with very little sex education, that Louis had a minor problem with his penis that made penetrative intercourse painful, and that he seemed to have very little interest in fixing that problem until years of people pushing him. They managed children eventually, as well as warmth between them. Since none of these things would make much sense in this setting, my version is heteromantic asexual. 
> 
> Chev was totally not going to be an action star in this chapter, but it happened nonetheless. We're nearing the end of this story! I will miss it. It's not the last of this cast, though.


	45. say we say we love

“Is the camera on?”

“Uh huh. Pressing record in three...two….” Pierre waved at his laptop. “Hello to our friends, family, and other people we wish to notify.”

“You may be wondering why Pierre and I are dressed up,” Chev said. Pierre was in a suit, while Chev was in a green strapless dress with a suit jacket and necktie. 

Pierre held up a document and pointed at it with raised eyebrows, smug. “We just got married.”

“If you’re wondering why we’ve done this while having just celebrated our first anniversary a few weeks ago, and at our age, let me remind you that we’ve been friends for more than three years. Also…” _Not a lie, not a lie, just show real emotion and tell something that is not a lie._

Putting aside the license, Pierre took Chev’s hand. “You want me to be the one to talk about it?”

“I’m okay. You see, I’ve had trouble in the past with doctors not respecting my wishes, and those who were supposed to be my advocates not respecting them either. And I’ve had trouble with bureaucracy, and with being discriminated against.” Chev didn’t care if this was a transparent dig at their parents. Their child-self had protested against attempts to ‘fix’ their genitals, and unhappily gone along with the treatments. A few additional centimeters had not been worth that. 

“We’re not at a point in our lives where we’re up for a big, expensive ceremony, and we wanted something just for us. Yes, living the cliche of a Vegas elopement is entertaining too. But I offered to be officially on Chev’s side. I have the honor to be someone they trust with their life and welfare, and I am grateful to have another way to help and protect them.” Pierre looked at Chev with such intensity that Chev practically expected a swell of music in the background.

“If any of you want to throw us small congratulatory parties, we will accept that, but no surprises, please. We’ll probably do something of our own in a few years. Our lives won’t change much, because all the love was already there. Just a little more secure.” Chev pulled Pierre in for a kiss. Pierre turned off the recording while still wrapped up in the embrace, him being talented like that.

“Put your laptop away and help me get my clothes off,” Chev said softly.

The moment Pierre saw it, he let out a small gasp. “It’s beautiful! All the detail on the petals."

“If I wore a wedding ring or had a tan line from one, it’d be an identifying mark, and also I’d have an obvious weakness. If I had a tattoo of your name, there’s no guarantee of always being covered up when it counts. I got this instead.” Chev touched it lightly. “Can you tell?”

Pierre shook his head.

“It’s sweet peas. Because I am my sweet P’s.”

After a moment agape (mouth open in astonishment) and with agape (archaic noun for full, all-encompassing love), Pierre kissed the flowers. “What do you want me to do for you tonight?”

Chev put an arm around his waist and ran fingers through his hair with the other hand. “It’s okay if you’re too uncomfortable, but just for a change…”

“Anything.” Hushed. Awed.

“Could you be in charge? I think I’m ready to trust someone else to be.” They’d told Pierre soon after he’d rescued them last year that they were naturally a switch, not a Dom, but that Claude had ruined that for them. Ruined for awhile. There was more than one way to rescue someone.

“Anything for my _spouse_.” Pierre grinned. Chev grinned back.


	46. (Epistolary Epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for joining me. <3

Our darling boy,

You may have seen the news that Robespierre has resigned from office and is under investigation for alleged unlawful pursuit of private vendettas using state anti-terrorism funding. The result is that the charges against us have dropped, including trivial, supposedly unrelated ones such as our alleged harboring of illegal workers. Charlotte Corday is independently filing a pro bono countersuit against Marat on behalf of those he has persecuted, and we wish her success, but in and of ourselves prefer to leave the matter be. (She will likely succeed. In legal circles they call her the Angel of Assassination.) 

We will soon contact James Armistead to see if he or his family are in need of anything money can buy. Chev didn’t let anything slip, but it’s obvious he was involved.

The more surprising thing is that Monsieur 16 and Monsieur 15 both came to parley, if you will, and have agreed to cease using the secrets of the Lafayette fortune and all past favors as leverage against us, and have also provided insurance against any of their followers or replacements doing the same. We appreciate the last part more and more as the rumors speak of a possible coup among the French Numbers.

Mde. Habsburg got in touch and asked if she could visit, when she is in France and needs a day or two escaping from the complex politics of Monsieur 16’s life. We said of course. 

In domestic news, Henriette hasn’t shown interest in walking yet, and we’re not pushing her to hurry. We’re just helping her have strong legs so that when she wants to walk she has the best start possible. She continues to prefer words with many vowels; she might actually be having trouble with consonants. We’re looking into speech therapists. We have taught her a few signs, too, to ease her frustration when she wants something. Meanwhile, Olympe has joked that we should teacher her a vowel-heavy Pacific Islander language, such as Hawaiian or Maori. Especially since Henriette loves watching _Moana_ so much. We think it’s the music and ocean colors. We alternate the English original and the French dub.

Tell your spouse(!) we are keeping their bikini safe so they can wear it confidently in our private pool next time you visit. Which you will. Both. We must throw you a small party. You will both visit us soon. That’s an order. Make Chev seek out an assignment that will bring them nearby, if need be. We will, of course, be attending Alexander and Eliza’s wedding in March. We appreciate them sending out invitations early so we can plan - surely we can fit in some time with just you before we go.

Don’t tell others just yet, but with all these pressures relieved and Henriette far healthier than she once was, and having graduated to solid food as well, we’re once again pursuing our desire for another child. It’s nice to have someone to confide it about the ups-and-downs of such an endeavor, and you are the logical candidate, if that is all right.

All our love,  
Laf & Adri

***

To Mr. Charles Dodgson,

Upon your request that we reexamine your application and carry out an updated background check, we have noted that the application for a restraining order against you - made by a family that lives perilously close to our location - has been dismissed. Therefore our reservations against hiring you for the research position in question have been removed...

***

CHARLES-GENEVIEVE D’EON

This is official notice that LOUIS PONTIERE has been released on parole, and is restricted to THE COMMONWEALTH OF VIRGINIA for the duration. Be advised that parolees are forbidden to have contact with their victims. You will be alerted to any change of status. 

For questions or to report misconduct, contact...

***

Dear Ms. Louise O’Murphy,

My name is Nathan Hale, and I am a private investigator. I was recently contacted by an individual wishing to remain anonymous, who has offered to pay for fifty percent of the cost for me to locate a missing person for you. I was not otherwise informed of details. This is only to proceed with your consent, and I regret that I have but one week to wait for your response...

***

PIERRE  
Can I come walk Azor with you tonight? There’s supposed to be a meteor shower.

FRIEDRICH  
Really? Very well, then. 

PIERRE  
Benjy told me you’ve been walking Azor late at night, and worries.

FRIEDRICH  
I’m fine, just insomniac.

PIERRE  
He worries Azor will be spoiled and always expect late-night walks

FRIEDRICH  
Ah.

PIERRE  
maybe we could hold hands?

FRIEDRICH  
I’d like that.

 

***

“Hey kid, it’s Barry. The picture of a Prince Rupert drop you sent me shouldn’t take more than two hours and I could fit you in as early as next Monday, call me back and we can talk quotes and size. We will however have a minimum size if you want it to look like polarized tadpole-shaped glass, and don’t want it to look like a wonky yet festive sperm. It’s cute that you want it same place I put the sweet pea flowers on Chev.”

***

“Sweet P, it’s me.”

“Hey Chevy.”

“Good, neither of us are compromised. What nickname would mean I was compromised?”

“Babelicious. And if I were compromised I would call you Cookie.”

“Indeed. I promised I’d call when I was on the way home, so…”

“Great! Was it a success?”

“Mostly. I stole the blueprints and securely faxed them to the client, no problem, but I was seen when I was putting them back. My cover story didn’t work out. To be on the safe side, I canceled my plane ticket, so it’ll be an extra day before I get back. Can’t talk long each time I check in, because my power bank is drained and I have to preserve my phone’s charge.”

“How are you getting back?”

“I sneaked into a freight train car. Proper hobo style. Don’t worry, conductors don’t care as long as you mind your own business and don’t make a mess or steal. It’s not worth their effort to traverse a half-mile of cars while the train’s in motion for something harmless. I got you something from a Motown museum.”

“You’re on the way from Detroit! Aren’t you cold?”

“I brought one of those space blankets and some hand warmers. I will build a fort among the crates. I’ll be okay. Trust me. I’m fierce about self-preservation.”

“Okay, but if you get frostbite...“

“Not going to get frostbite. How did it go with the psycholinguists today? I understand the root words, but the name makes them sound mentally unstable.”

“Hehe, it does, but they’ve heard that joke a lot. It was neat. We were working on my process for figuring out completely unfamiliar languages and seeing if that matches the standard model for language acquisition in terms of the steps I take. There were boring parts, but that’s science for you.”

“That’s one of the reasons I swore it off. Better you than me. I’ll keep you updated.”

“Do. Get home soon. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nathan Hale: American spy executed by the British during the war.
> 
> Motown: a genre of music that came out of much-colder-than-Virginia Detroit back when it was "Motor Town" and prospered making America's cars. Including Chevrolet cars. A Chevrolet car is often called a "Chevy". Chev was originally inspired by "Chevalier" (SHE-val-YAY) rather than "Charles". It's okay if you don't pronounce it with the soft "sh". I forgot to say so until it was too late not to upset someone's headcanon, though I might go back and add a note somewhere for future readers. Anyway, subtle pun influence!
> 
> I have plans for a story about James Hamilton, Jr. attending Alexander's wedding and observing all Alexander's found family and friends, as part of the Time Out of Mind series and not this spinoff. 
> 
> *******
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Commence apologetic-for-the-repetition-but-sincere-because-I-put-all-my-soul-in-this plug:
> 
> I have a published urban fantasy novel you might be interested in. The summary doesn't say so, but six of the major characters are queer in some way or other. I'm amazed they're letting me get away with it. [ Available as ebook and print form on Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07DSLT3D2/ref=mp_s_a_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1529183871&sr=8-2&pi=AC_SX236_SY340_FMwebp_QL65&keywords=Donaya+Haymond&dpPl=1&dpID=51cFXjiasBL&ref=plSrch), and in [print from the Barnes & Noble site.](https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/seasons-turning-donaya-haymond/1129067787?ean=9780999202654)


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